


Ever Since The World Began

by theredwagon



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-04-23 10:46:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14330808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredwagon/pseuds/theredwagon
Summary: Lonely Winds Part 4A series of unexpected events finds our heroes separated and in danger, if I say any more I give away the whole story;)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heartfelt thanks to Arduna for taking the time to clean this up twice, all spelling or punctuation errors are mine, because of course I tinkered with it after she sent it back to me:)

Ever Since The World Began by theredwagon

Lonely Winds Part 4

Summary; A series of unexpected events finds our heroes separated and in danger, if I say any more I give away the whole story;)

Disclaimer; No money being made, no harm or disrespect intended

Story Title; is of course a Yardbirds song, go listen to it at youtube, you’ll be surprised at how relevant the lyrics are all these years later

Story takes place (you guessed it!) 7 months after Turn Into Earth ends and Constance announces her pregnancy.

 

Every Since The World Began – Chapter 1 

 

It’s snowing in London and the entire city has gone bonkers.

‘Snowmaggedon’ fever has gripped the capital’s inhabitants and taken over Instagram, Facebook and Twitter as if it was the first time anyone had ever seen snow. It’s a beautiful sight though, everything covered in a shiny white blanket and the sound of children – and plenty of adults – enjoying a rare snow-day off and engaging in the ages-old tradition of snow-ball fights brings a huge grin to d’Artagnan’s face, as he slips and slides across the pavement, trying to get into his apartment block without dropping his precious shopping or falling on his arse.

Back upstairs, he toes off his soggy trainers at the door and hurries to put all the groceries away. They have no idea how bad the weather will get over the next few days so he’d braved the blustery cold and the slippery roads to venture out to the Tesco Express two streets over to make sure that Constance has everything she needs when he leaves for work. The rest of the London might be having a snow-day but law enforcement of course, is not. 

Once he’s taken care of his task he makes his way quietly back into their bedroom where Constance is still sleeping soundly and he makes a valiant attempt to change into his uniform without waking her. That doesn’t happen though and she’s awake and mumbling something about being cold and he sits down on the bed beside her, one hand instinctively going to her quite massive belly.

“Should I put the heat up, luv?”

Constance sighs dramatically. “No, I’ll just break out in a sweat if you do that. Do you have to go to work today?” she asks petulantly.

“Sorry, babe, you know I do. Why don’t you have Aramis come ‘round? You can gossip, drink tea and braid each other’s hair,” d’Artagnan teases. “He’s got nothing to do today, he never works on Fridays.”

“Sounds like a plan, and truthfully, his hair _has_ become long enough to braid, yours too,” she says fondly. 

“Uh, uh, no way, Porthos will kill me if I show up to work in braids or even a top-knot, he hates my hair as it is, and it drives him mad that he can’t do anything about it.”

Constance giggles. “Just remind my darling Porthos that your wife-to-be and mother of your child-to-be loves your long hair and he’ll stop moaning,” she tells him and she reaches up and pushes his hair behind his ears.

“There, now you look more presentable.”

She looks so beautiful like that, lying against the crème sheets, her red-brown curls long enough to fall over her shoulders, a pale yellow nightdress straining to cover the swell of her breasts and her swollen belly, and fuck, he actually groans out loud and feels the crotch of his jeans tightening.

“Need help with that?” she asks coyly.

It’s been about two weeks since they’ve stopped having penetrative sex, mostly because it’s terribly awkward but they certainly have not stopped enjoying each other in other ways. But d’Artagnan is already late and it’s going to take him ages to drive to work in this mess, so no matter how much he’d love to take her up on her offer, he simply can’t.

“I wish, but I’m late and Porthos will let everyone else slide and then come down on me, simply to make sure he’s not giving me any special treatment,” d’Artagnan grouses.

“Well, when you get home then,” she promises and she yawns and stretches like a (very pregnant) cat and d’Artagnan wrestles with the urge to get back into bed with her and say fuck it all. Instead, he pulls the duvet up to her chin and tucks it carefully around her.

“I’ve filled the fridge and the cupboards, and I’m sure at some point the snow will stop and you’ll be able to get a delivery if you fancy a pizza or a curry,” he’s saying while sliding into his black cargo trousers and he snags a clean uniform shirt from the closet. Kevlar follows and then his weapons, one on his shoulder and the other on his thigh, and this is all topped off with a waterproof coat with a removable ‘police’ badge on the back, attached with Velcro. His boots are waiting for him by the door, along with his rucksack with the rest of his kit, and his keys, wallet and cell phone are on the small table beside them.

“Ring me if you need anything, anything at all, Porthos can kiss my arse,” he says with a chuckle and he bends down to kiss her soundly.

“I suspect you wouldn’t dare say that in front of him, mate!”

“Not unless I want a bollocking and another month manning a desk,” d’Artagnan agrees. “Love you and please do not go outside under any circumstances. Ring Aramis, he’s probably bored out of his head!”

“Go, I’m fine, and be safe, yeah?”

“Always.” 

In the living room he slips into his boots and ties them and grabs his keys, phone and wallet and heads out, locking the door behind him. He takes the lift down to the garage because he’s too lazy today for the stairs and he disarms the alarm on their new car, a Land Rover Discovery Sport that has replaced his beloved Audi. It’s pre-owned of course, they could have never afforded a new one. It was still expensive though but since the Audi had been barely driven he’d been able to trade it in for a good price and both him and Constance had agreed that a four-wheel drive SUV was a much better choice for a baby and all the paraphernalia that goes along with one. D’Artagnan had been sad to see the Audi go, just as sad as he’d been when he’d wrecked his bike but he has different priorities now and it doesn’t really bother him as much as he’d thought it would. 

It’s days like today though that he’s particularly glad for their new ride, because when he pulls out of the garage he immediately sees that the weather has worsened considerably and the recently-plowed roads are once again covered in snow. 

When he’s still only a half-mile away from home his phone rings; shit, it’s Porthos, he realises with a groan, and he answers it via the car’s blue tooth system and he waits for his boss to have a go at him.

_“Where the fuck are you?”_

“Good morning to you too, boss,” d’Artagnan replies calmly. “I’m stuck in traffic, in the snow.”

_“Don’t come ‘ere, go straight to Whitehall, our old haunt, there’s a situation there.”_

“My weapon?” he asks, referring to the automatic assault rifle that he is not allowed to keep at home.

_“Ryder’s checked it out for you so no messin’ about with it. You’ll be briefed when you get there, can’t talk over the phone.”_

“What’s the code level? I’m at least 30 minutes away still and the roads are bloody mess.”

_“Use your siren and get there as soon as possible. And be fucking careful for once!”_

Cryptic and hesitant to talk over the phone most likely means some kind of terrorist threat. “Always. I’ll get you on comms when I arrive,” he assures Porthos and hangs up.

He flips on the blue light on his dashboard and then the siren and he does his utmost to manoeuvre through the slow-moving traffic and the slushy roads. When he’s nearly there he rings Aramis.

_“I’m sleeping brat, can’t I ring you later?” he groans, sounding rough._

“Sorry, mate, but there’s a situation at Whitehall, dunno what yet, and I’ll probably be late, can you please go round ours and check on Constance? And don’t tell her anything so she doesn’t worry.”

_“I don’t actually know anything so I can’t tell her anything,” Aramis grumbles, “but of course I’ll go, just need a shower. How bad is it outside?”_

“Take a taxi, your car won’t make it half a mile, it’s a fucking mess out here.”

_“Right, I’ll be at yours within the hour I hope, does Constance need anything?”_

“No, I went to the shop earlier, you’ve got everything you need for a cosy snow day,” d’Artagnan says with mock jealously. “I’m hanging up, I’ll ring you later,” he adds and shuts the phone. He finally arrives at Whitehall where he’s greeted by chaos outside the MoD. He flashes his ID and is waved into a cordoned off area by a uniformed police officer who shows him where to leave his car. He quickly dons the soft cotton ski mask that covers his hair and lower part of his face and grabs his rucksack that holds the rest of his kit.

Ryder appears as d’Artagnan is halfway to what looks like a makeshift command area, his uniform and helmet covered in snow and he hands him his weapon. D’Artagnan grunts a thanks and slings the weapon over his shoulder.

“What’s the situation?”

“Explosive devices found in multiple buildings. Loss of life avoided only because one of the devices went off prematurely around 01:30 am and the bomb squad swooped in, did a thorough sweep of all buildings up and down Whitehall, government and non, and disarmed 3 further devices, they just gave us the all-clear.”

D’Artagnan nods. “Well that’s good, so why are we here?”

“Protection detail, all government buildings will be guarded 24/7 for the foreseeable future, we’re assigned here, along with 2 armed police units, three eight hour shifts, and you’re in charge.”

D’Artagnan groans. “Brilliant, the first thing most of these coppers ask when they find out I’m in charge is _why_? Do we really need help? The four of us are more than capable on our own.”

Ryder laughs as they head for the protection of the overhang of the MOD’s six-story Support and IT building, a more contemporary structure attached to the main building by a skybridge that houses the Agency’s offices on the top floor. “We do mate, the building is just too big for the four of us to cover, plus it’s kind of fun to be the big boys, innit?”

“For you, maybe, but I always get the same comments; _‘are you even old enough to drink?’_ Or _‘Oi, what’s with the hair, mate’._ ”

“Don’t let it rattle you, boss, imagine if they saw DJ’s dreads? Your 'George Harrison-circa-1969' hair and beard intimidates them because you look far too attractive to be a copper, let alone in charge,” Ryder teases and he leads d’Artagnan into the foyer where they meet up with Treville, who is discussing something quite animatedly with a group of armed police officers.

“Finally, did you think you’d be having a snow day?” he asks d’Artagnan sternly, but there’s humour in those blue eyes and d’Artagnan grins.

“Did you specifically ask for us? Cause I know Porthos would have never sent us your way on his own,” d’Artagnan questions, removing the soft mask from his face and head since they are now away from prying eyes.

“Of course I did, lad, the devil you know and all that?” he teases. “Actually, it was mostly Porthos’ idea simply because you know this building better than anyone so it made logistical sense for it to be you to be sent here. Right, you lot,” Treville says to the group of officers, “report to him,” he adds, indicating d’Artagnan and if anyone was planning to complain or take the piss they don’t, they wouldn’t dare in front of Treville. “You are to follow his orders to the letter, is that clear? He is the senior operative in charge.”

There is a chorus of ‘yes sirs’, and although one of the older officers gives d’Artagnan the stink eye, no one else looks at him sideways. Treville nods and moves off to the side to answer his ringing phone, leaving d’Artagnan front and centre.

“Right then, ladies and gents, who’s in command of each unit?” d’Artagnan asks them and a woman of about forty-ish steps forward. “I am…sir,” she adds and although it’s not outright disrespectful he can tell it irks her to call him that. 

“And?”

The bloke that gave him the stink eye steps forward. “That would be me,” he states formally, “ _Sir_.”

The tension is broken by the arrival of Mouse and Beetle, with greetings of ‘boss’ and questions about Constance and there’s good-natured ribbing about his impending fatherhood that lighten the mood considerably. D’Artagnan though, somewhat embarrassed to be the centre of attention yet again, calls everyone to order.

“So Sergeant Bradford,” he reads off her uniform, “you will command Charlie fire team and Sergeant Andrews Delta fire team, any questions?”

Andrews baulks. “We’re not military,” he grouses, referring to the addition of ‘fire team’ to their unit.

“Protocol states that during any cooperation between police and Special Operations the police unit involved defers to Special Operations on all matters, which would include of course, communications,” d’Artagnan tells him unflinchingly. “As we are all ex-military, it’s simply the way SO25 operates, that’s not going to be a problem, is it?”

No one actually replies but no one complains either.

“Alright then, we are Alpha team,” d’Artagnan says, indicating Ryder, Mouse and Beetle, “and these gents will assign you to an exit or floor, there will be three breaks for each unit, in pairs, you’ll be notified via your comms,” he informs them and he turns the rest of the briefing over to Ryder to have a look at the building plans spread out on the large marble reception desk while he waits for Treville to finish his phone call to quiz him about the incident.

“I know that we’re here purely on protection detail but what’s going on, Sir? Fundamentalist terrorists or some other fringe group? Jesus, this better not be more angry squaddies. Who’s in charge? Has anyone taken responsibility yet?”

Treville pockets his phone and sighs tiredly. “No idea, lad, truly. As for who is handling it, at the moment as head of Counter-terrorism Sylvie is in charge, with help from Agency Team 5 who are the most experienced Team with respect to this particular type of domestic threat. She requested Porthos deploy SO25 units to supervise the regular armed police units in every building from Trafalgar Square to the Cenotaph, excluding Number 10 since they’ve got their own security, on twelve hour rotations.”

“These fuckers get off in eight and us in twelve?” d’Artagnan complains half-heartedly.

“You lot are the most elite unit we have outside of the military, take it as a compliment. There will be overtime and hazard pay of course, and with a baby on the way every penny counts, eh? Besides, the threat is probably over, at least for us here, and we’ve got a new fancy espresso machine, I’m sure Athos will be happy to accommodate you, he’s been having far too much fun with it.”

“Sounds good.” He strips off his jacket and takes out the vest that holds the rest of his kit from his rucksack and he slides his arms into it and zips it up, and then he shoves the damp jacket into his bag.

“I’ll see you upstairs, I’ve got a meeting with Louis to brief him,” Treville informs him and heads for the lifts.

“All set boss, you get the sixth floor of course,” Ryder tells him with a cheeky grin.

“Thanks mate,” d’Artagnan replies sincerely, he hasn’t been up there in ages and in all honesty a part of him misses it.

“All call signs,” Ryder says into his mic, please state your position, over.”

One by one they all call in, and d’Artagnan leaves Ryder at his position in the reception area with two other officers and takes the steps up to the sixth floor, avoiding the lift as a matter of protocol. His presence in full kit and heavily armed barely gets a second glance; these people might be mostly desk jockeys but they are used to the Teams coming in and out in some form or gear or another so they are not fazed by the sight of him. Due to the weather it’s just a skeleton crew and almost everyone recognises him and greets him by his code name or simply by ‘mate’ or ‘lad’ and he feels an overwhelming sense of nostalgia within the walls of the Agency’s support unit. 

Athos sees him and d’Artagnan is careful not to let the smile slip from his face as he watches his brother struggle to rise from behind his desk inside his glass-walled office. He leans casually on Constance’s assistant’s empty desk and waits patiently for Athos, wearing dark jeans and a navy jumper, to come out of his office.

“Casual Friday?” d’Artagnan asks him, wrapping his arms around his brother while being mindful of all the crap he’s got strapped to him.

“Snowmageddon, didn’t you hear?” Athos replies with a wry grin. “Are you ours for the day?”

D’Artagnan gives him a mock grimace. “For the next eleven and a half hours yes.”

“I’ll probably been here as well, so you can keep me company.”

“I’m supposed to be standing at attention by the stairwell, eyes on the lift,” he grumbles.

“I thought you were the ‘boss’, don’t you at least get to sit down?” Athos teases.

“Treville says I should be flattered, apparently we are the fittest and most bad-ass blokes outside of the military.”

Athos laughs. “Indeed you are…once upon a time, we all were.”

D’Artagnan knows he’s referring to his permanently injured leg but he refuses to let him wallow. “True, have you seen Aramis’ love handles? He needs to be sent back to basic training.”

“Love handles? Is Aramis in the habit of walking around yours shirtless? If so I’d be worried about the state of things between you and Constance,” Athos deadpans.

“Thankfully, no, I caught him in the lockers on Wednesday after a hard day of training the newbies in gun safety and I noticed he was looking a bit flabby…told him so as well…got a filthy sock thrown at me for my trouble.”

“Sounds like Aramis. Apparently he’s enjoying his new employment; three days a week, doing what he loves best, playing around with guns,” Athos says drily. “So, how is our girl? I spoke to her a few days ago and she sounded…frustrated.”

“She is, just two weeks to go and frankly it can’t come soon enough for either of us, Constance is not an easy woman to live with while pregnant.”

Athos nods and smiles but d’Artagnan notices that his face in pinched and he looks tired…and maybe a bit sad?

“Hey, brother, you alright?” d’Artagnan inquires, concerned.

Athos meets his gaze and looks a bit startled by the question. “Yes, of course, why?”

“Dunno, you look like you need a holiday, somewhere tranquil like the Maldives.”

“Don’t tell Sylvie, she’ll probably book it and then force me to go,” Athos groans. “If you think Constance is pushy you obviously don’t know Sylvie very well.”

“She’s my boss, mate, I do know her, very well…and now she’s family, after all she’s dating my brother, isn’t she?” d’Artagnan says fondly. He admires Sylvie for her achievements but he’s also come to care for her as a person. He truly hopes that she and Athos stay together.

“How’s Porthos? I haven’t seen him since we all watched the match last weekend, still sore about Arsenal’s loss?”

“Porthos is fine but he’s become such a hardass at work…because of what happened and all that,” he grouses, referring to his and Constance’s kidnapping. “He made me sit at a desk for two months and now that I’m back in the field he’s constantly on my back because he’s still pissed off at me that I offered to do something…stupid.”

Athos nods and falls quite gracelessly into Jared’s - the missing assistant - chair, unable to hide the wince of pain as he does so. “It was quite epically stupid, that’s for sure” Athos offers. “But outside of work, everything’s fine? I hadn’t noticed any tension between the two of you.”

“Well, when it’s all of us out together, he’s perfectly normal, but at work he scrutinises everything and points out stuff that he thinks I'm doing wrong 'n whatnot. Not all the time, mind you, but a lot of the time.”

“Lad, you worry him, and I’m guessing he feels responsible for your well-being since you are under his command. I’m sure he’s just doing it to keep you on your toes, so that nothing happens to you.”

“Maybe, I mean don’t get me wrong, I’m not angry with him, and we’re still close, but he just seems like he’s not ready to fully trust me or forgive me for being…”d’Artagnan tries to explain, trailing off with a wave of his hand.

“For being _you_? Oh, child,” he says affectionately, “you are the easiest as well as the most difficult person to care for, and you’re about to be a father, I’m sure he just wants to make sure you stay safe.”

D’Artagnan doesn’t get a chance to reply to Athos’ wholly unexpected and very candid remark because they are both immediately distracted by the flickering of the lights. A few seconds later the power goes and then the generator kicks in.

“All call signs,” d’Artagnan says at once into his mic and he hurries to the stairwell where he checks to make sure there’s nothing out of the ordinary. “Power out on floor six, generator has kicked in, please report your situation.”

“This is Alpha one,” he hears Ryder say. “Power is out all over the city it seems, all call signs please report.”

One by one everyone reports that their floor or area has had power restored by the generator but the lifts are down and apparently the phone system is wonky at the moment. D’Artagnan rings Porthos via his mobile to report.

“Power is out here, what about you lot?” he asks his boss.

_“It’s everywhere, it’s this fuckin’ snow, and some tosser leaked the bomb story to the press so it’s chaos on top of the fact that we still don’t know what we’re dealing with. I’m expecting you to not abandon your post unless I say so, even if you’ve got to sleep on your old desk.”_

“Roger that, boss,” he assures Porthos.

_“Get on comms, warn everyone that the alert level’s been raised due to the power cut and to be vigilant.”_

“On it,” d’Artagnan says.

_“And don’t do anything stupid, those wannabe coppers would like nothing more than to see you crash and burn.”_

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, boss,” d’Artagnan replies but Porthos has already hung up. Seems that Porthos has had his share of run-ins with the regulars as well; d’Artagnan has no problem working with other agencies but some of them resent the fact that Special Operations Unit 25 or SO25 as it’s mostly called, is considered the most elite of all Special Ops Units, even though he and his colleagues do their utmost to keep their egos reined in to prevent that.

“Trouble?” Athos asks when he returns.

“Power’s out everywhere, I’d better see if Constance is alright,” he answers, worried.

He rings her mobile and gets a network busy signal, so he texts her but it doesn’t ‘send’. He tries the landline but it just rings and no one answers.

“Try Aramis,” Athos suggests calmly but they get network busy there as well.

“I’m sure they’re fine, the minute the power went out every single person in London started calling their friends and family and jammed the network, we’ll try again in a bit. In the meanwhile, I’ll make you a coffee and we’ve got some croissants in the kitchen as well,” Athos is telling him, leaning heavily on his cane as he gets slowly to his feet.

There is no reason to panic, d’Artagnan tells himself. Constance is more capable than just about any of them, and she’s not alone. Besides, a power outage in the middle of the morning won’t affect her, not with the huge glass doors in their lounge, there’s plenty of light and everything will be fine.

He follows Athos to the small kitchen and pushes away the worry, she’s with Aramis and safe at home, and a good, strong coffee sounds like heaven at the moment.

 

**********************************************************

 

“Bloody hell Aramis, did you walk all the way here?”

Aramis is shaking so hard he can’t reply. Constance jumps into action and shuts the door behind him and starts stripping him of his outerwear; scarf, hat, coat but she can’t bend over to help him with his shoes.

“You’ve got to take your boots off yourself, mate, I haven’t been able to bend over that far since November,” she says with a grimace and she’s pleased to see that brings a smile to his frozen face.

“I’ll get you a towel, wait here.”

When she returns from the bathroom he’s mostly stopped shivering and she uses the towel to dry off the ends of his hair and his beard which are soaked from the snow. When she’s done he leans in to kiss her jaw and touch her belly, his new favourite pastime. 

“Still not ready to pop?” he asks fondly.

Constance groans and pulls him towards the dining table where she’s laid out breakfast. “Two more weeks and then I’m a free woman.”

“Wow, you made all of this just for me?” Aramis says, surprised at the spread.

“And me, I’m hungry twenty-four-seven, mate, it’s driving me mad!”

Constance gets the cafetiere and they fall into the scrambled eggs, bacon and bagels like ants at a picnic.

“So how did you get here, anyway?” she questions, practically shovelling the eggs in her mouth.

“Your boy advised me to take a taxi, which I did, but the driver had to leave me five blocks away because the roads became impassable, thus the Frosty the Snowman imitation. I’ll probably end up sleeping here, Reina texted me not to expect her before tomorrow noon at the earliest anyway, they’re completely snowed in at the hospital as well as swamped with accidents and frozen rough sleepers.”

“Poor girl, I bet she wishes she was back at the school on days like this.”

Aramis chuckles. “I would have thought so as well but she’s a lot like us, always wants to be in the thick of it, no matter how bloody it gets…literally.”

“You say d’Artagnan rang you? You forgot to mention that when we spoke.”

“Er, yes, you know him, always worried about you so he asked me to come round.”

Constance sees something in Aramis’ gaze that makes her think he’s hiding something, but before she can ask, the lights go out.

“Oh, bloody fucking brilliant,” she groans.

“We have gas to cook and a landline if our mobile batteries die,” Aramis says reassuringly, picking up the phone on the counter behind him and confirming a dial tone. “And three different versions of scrabble,” he reminds her. 

“We’d better check the torches, change batteries if necessary…oh, and there’s an old transistor in the second drawer, under the tea towels, so we can keep up with the snowmageddon news.”

“Sounds like you’ve got everything under control. If all else fails, we can listen to Radio One while we cuddle under the duvet, feeling the little bunny in your belly kick is truly the highlight of my day,” he confesses.

“If the little bunny’s father comes home and finds us ‘cuddled’ in bed together I’ll leave you to explain,” she teases while picking up the dishes, but suddenly she gasps and almost drops the crockery she’d holding.

“Constance?” Aramis cries, obviously terrified and he’s on his feet and taking the plates from her hands while she rides a very odd wave of intense pain in her lower belly.

In a daze, she lets Aramis lead her to the sofa where he piles pillows behind her and tucks a throw blanket around her. “Should I call someone? Your doctor?”

She catches her breath as the pain slowly fades and she shakes her head. “No, it passed, I’m fine,” she assures him. “I just need a few moments to relax.”

Aramis doesn’t look convinced. “If you’re still feeling ill by the time I clean up the table, I’m calling your doctor and your husband.”

“He’s not my husband,” she reminds him, trying to reassure him by forcing a smile. “Although he did lie and tell his Mum we did a quickie register until we can do the whole white wedding.”

“Clever boy, his Mum is lovely…but she can be scary,” Aramis teases. “But seriously, if you’re feeling ill you must tell me, luv.”

“Yes, of course,” she assures him but the truth is that she isn’t feeling well in the slightest. Aside from that pain she also feels dizzy and somewhat disoriented. She closes her eyes for a few moments, listening to the sounds of Aramis clearing the table and loading the dishwasher, the mundane tasks lulling her into a light doze but her eyes fly open again as she’s hit by another cramp, this one is shorter but still pretty intense.

“Aramis?” she manages to say, feeling breathless, “I think something’s wrong,” she adds feebly.

Aramis is at her side in a second and he sits down next to her, face creased with worry. “Tell me luv, and I’ll call your doctor,” he says soothingly.

“I had another cramp…” she explains, trying to keep herself calm. “I’m not due for another two weeks, do you think this is early labor?”

“I have absolutely no idea, let me ring your doctor, where can I find her number?”

“On my mobile, Dr. Ariel Duncroft, she always answers…” Constance replies, but then she gasps and rides yet another wave of pain.

Aramis finds her phone and rings the doctor and quickly gives an assessment. They speak for only two minutes before he ends the call and sits back down beside her. “She says I need to take you to the hospital, I’ll have to call an ambulance…only because we have no other means of transportation, luv, and not because she’s particularly worried.”

“Alright, but can you help me to the toilet before you ring? I need to pee.”

Aramis puts one arm around her and gently helps her to her feet. When she’s standing, she feels yet another cramp and she gasps and leans into Aramis who immediately wraps both arms around her to hold her until it passes. The landline in ringing but neither of them bother with it, she’ll have Aramis check the missed call eventually, just in case it’s d’Artagnan or his or her Mum, all of whom seem to worry incessantly these days.

“Do you have a bag ready and all that?” he questions as they take small steps towards the toilet.

“Yes, everything is ready," she replies, but she doesn't add that she herself _isn't_.

By the time they reach the bathroom she feels winded and Aramis obviously notices her distress. “Do you need help? If you do please don’t be embarrassed, luv, I’m pretty sure after all these years we’re beyond being shy around each other.”

Constance tries to smile. “No, I think I’m ok,” she says shakily. They take two steps further together when Constance feels an excruciating cramp and something wet run down her legs.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, I think my water just broke.”

 

*******************************************

 

Porthos is pacing the carpeted floor of Special Operations’ main IT office, a thousand thoughts going through his troubled mind.

Four explosive devices in four different government building, all within a few hundred meters of each other, all very well protected and guarded, and no one noticing anything out of the ordinary. Danny, Tei and about a dozen other techs are pouring over cctv feed from every building at Whitehall from the past few days but it’s slow-going because there are so many offices, entrances, emergency exits, car parks, stairwells, toilets, it seems endless.

No organization has claimed responsibility, not even after someone had leaked the story to the press. When he and Sylvie find out who did so, there will be no mercy shown. So now along with the blizzard that has basically brought the city to a standstill they have a potentially disastrous terrorist threat looming if other devices have been planted elsewhere, as well as a very panicked public who are literally freaking out over both the weather and the idea of full-scale terrorist offensive on their crippled city. 

Porthos has about half of his elite SO25 tactical units at Whitehall, to supervise the Met’s armed response units; the rest are on stand-by and ready to relieve their comrades when the current twelve-hour shift is done and he’s deployed the majority of the Counter-terrorism police units to the tube and train stations, airports, Parliament, the Palace, and just about every other building or monument designated as a possible target. Many of them have had to literally make the trek on foot because the streets simply can’t be cleaned fast enough before more snow falls and it’s become almost impossible to travel by road and all helicopters have been grounded for the foreseeable future.

He knows it’s selfish to be thinking of his own family at the moment when so many of his fellow citizens are under one kind of threat or another but it’s so much easier to do his job when he’s not worrying, and knowing that Ellie and Marie are with her parents and Aramis has gone round to keep an eye on Constance puts his mind at ease and lets him focus. He’s also done something he’s a bit ashamed of; he’s purposely sent d’Artagnan to their old building where Treville and Athos are, for purely selfish reasons although he’d justified it with the fact that d’Artagnan knows every inch of the building that houses the Agency offices, making him the logical choice. The fact that Treville had also thought it was a good idea allows him to feel justified, even if a little bit guilty. If he’s there, he can keep an eye on the still-struggling Athos as well as on Treville, and they in turn can make sure that their father-to-be doesn’t accidentally put himself in harm’s way. 

It’s been a very difficult few months for Porthos. With Constance back, safe and sound and now pregnant, he’s found himself more and more concerned with the welfare of the baby’s reckless father than he probably should be. But he still hasn’t shaken off the unease he’s been carrying around since France, and he’s been riding d’Artagnan’s ass hard to make sure that he does everything by the book and with safety as his first priority and it’s definitely caused tension between them at work. Porthos has rarely had such a hard time being impartial with his people but those months without Constance and his feelings of guilt over her fate have not faded as easily as they seem to have for everyone else. He also knows that he needs to tone it down though, or risk a permanent rift between him and the boy.

His thoughts are interrupted by a very harried and completely exhausted Tei, who’s on his second eight-hour shift without sleep. 

“Boss, we have a Code Red situation that needs your attention asap!” 

Porthos follows him over to his work station where Tei, Danny and a Jane, a new recruit to the tech team from the police firearms unit with a university degree in statistics, have obviously been pouring over some cctv footage from a very familiar looking location.

“We’ve got a man, dressed as a cleaner, last night at 22:54, putting something in the ceiling tiles, third floor reception area. The bomb squad must have somehow missed it because that building was cleared and is now fully occupied.”

Porths suddenly feels physically ill. “Get d’Artagnan on comms, tell ‘im to evacuate the building immediately as well as the connected MoD building, get the bomb squad there asap, and ‘ave them establish a safe perimeter.” 

Tei, Danny and Jane are all on comms, passing on orders, and Porthos hurries to his office where he closes the blinds and the door and strips out of his suit and into his tactical uniform, kevlar and boots. He straps on his weapons, grabs his jacket and then returns to the floor.

“I want you three kitted up and ready to leave for Whitehall in five minutes,” he tells Tei firmly. “Assign someone you trust to take your place as boss. You,” he says to Danny, “tell Sylvie what’s ‘appening, she needs to get tactical teams to the cleaning service and locate all their employees, find out what other buildings or companies they service, they are now our prime suspects. And you,” he turns to Jane, “No one goes off shift unless their dying, tell ‘em to nap in the break room if they need to, but no one is leaving until all the feed from all the buildings is re-checked and triple-checked, with priority given to the hours the cleaners went in, got it?”

“Boss, there’s probably 2 feet of snow between us and Whitehall,” Danny says, phone in hand, dialling Sylvie.

“We’ll go as far as the Range Rover takes us and then we’ll fuckin’ walk if we ‘ave to, now get moving!” Porthos roars and the entire office goes silent. “We’ve got lives threatened,” he addresses his people, who all look a bit shell-shocked by his outburst. “Don’t let me down,” he continues with deadly calm.

Everyone scurries to do what their boss has requested and four minutes later Porthos’ hurriedly assembled unit meets him by the stairs, dragging their kit and weapons, following their sombre superior into the literal and metaphoric blizzard waiting for them.

 

To be continued…..


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Arduna for the beta, all mistakes are mine because she fixes them and then I tinker ;)

“Oh, fuck me sideways,” Constance gasps, both of her hands gripping her enlarged belly as she rides another wave of pain.

“Well, that’s a specific request,” Aramis remarks shakily, deflecting with humour as per the norm but the withering glance Constance gives him as she inches forward to sit on the closed toilet seat wipes the smile right off his face.

“Sorry,” he says, chastened. “Tell me what to do.”

“First, call an ambulance. Then you need to help me get out of these damp clothes, I don’t think I can do it on my own.”

“Right, of course.” Aramis pulls out his mobile and dials emergency services while reaching for the mop tucked in the corner beside the washer/dryer to clean up the floor. It’s not lost on him that he’s mopping up what are essentially baby bodily fluids with a Vileda Easy Wring while waits for someone to answer his call, and the thought is somewhat disturbing.

When an operator finally answers and he explains the situation he is immediately cut off by an older lady with nasal voice and a rather posh accent telling him there will be at least an hour wait if it’s not life or death. _Have you not looked out the window?_ she asks haughtily. A woman in labor apparently is not a life-threatening event unless she has underlying health issues, Aramis is informed sternly. An ambulance will be dispatched as soon as one is available and road conditions allow.

When the operator clicks off, Aramis rings Constance’s doctor from her phone to update her, with Constance herself only then hearing what the emergency services operator had said as Aramis passes the information on to her doctor, and frankly the mother-to-be does not look pleased.

Aramis shuts the phone and places it on top of the hamper. “She said not to worry, that we probably have plenty of time. She want us to ring as soon as the contractions start to come closer and in the meanwhile you should do what’s on your list?” he tells her, clueless to what this list might entail aside from grabbing an overnight bag and heading to the hospital.

Constance scrunches up her nose and looks thoroughly revolted, something that Aramis does not consider a good sign. 

“Constance?” he asks worriedly.

“Yes, sorry, I told her I wanted a…erm, well…an enema, even though it’s not standard practice anymore and she advised me to do it at home as soon as I felt labor come on. Now, I’m not so sure I want to.”

Aramis squirms. He and Constance are like family, closer than that in so many ways but…

“Oi! No need to look so disgusted, don’t you poop from your arsehole like the rest of us do, mate? Or does yours shoot out rainbows and sunshine like a unicorn?”

Aramis puts the mop…with the baby fluids…eewwww…back into the corner and lets out an awkward laugh. “Constance my dear, I have seen gaping wounds and missing limbs but I have never been present at the birth of a baby or the period of time leading up to it, sorry if I’m freaking out a bit here, it’s overwhelming! And why isn’t your stupid husband here?” Aramis complains ridiculously, knowing full well that d’Artagnan is up to his own arsehole in what could be a major security crisis and now he feels bad. 

Constance huffs out a laugh that turns into a giggle and then a gasp when she clutches her belly. “He’s not my husband and we’re not rich like you and Athos so he has to work for a living,” she grouses, getting to her feet. “Now I suggest you give me a few minutes to myself to deal with my bodily functions on my own…unless you prefer to watch?” she asks cheekily, one brow arching. 

Aramis retreats and closes the door behind him, reminding her not to lock it just in case. He goes back into the kitchen where he tidies up a few things he’d forgotten on the counter and turns on the dishwasher. He has a look outside and feels his heart sink when he sees just how much more snow has accumulated since he’d arrived, worrying anew about the ETA on the ambulance. 

He pulls out his phone and dials Reina. 

“Constance is in labor and it’s just the two of us and there’s no ambulance available and we have no car and I doubt a taxi would venture out in this weather or if it would even be a safe option anyway and I can’t call d’Artagnan because it might distract him because something is going on at Whitehall and he’s there and holy shit, what if the baby comes before the ambulance does?” Aramis practically screeches.

 _“Are you finished?”_ Reina asks him calmly.

Aramis takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Yes, I think so…for the moment at least.”

 _“Good. First things first; stay calm, it’s a baby, not the apocalypse. Women have been giving birth at home since the beginning of time, I don’t know why you’re so worried, you’re a fully qualified field medic, you know what to do!”_ she scolds.

Aramis tangles his left hand in his hair and tugs. “See, I _don’t_ know, I’ve never had the pleasure! I mean in theory I know what to do but in practice, no. What if I fuck up? This isn’t just any baby, this is Constance and d’Artagnan’s baby, it might as well be my own!”

 _“It’s not though, is it? I mean I really hope he or she doesn’t arrive with a full head of black curly hair and a mustache, alternately cursing and flirting in Spanish,”_ she deadpans.

“WHAT?” Aramis squeaks, the humour in her statement going directly over his head.

_“Aramis, enough, if you don’t calm down you will frighten Constance. If the ambulance doesn’t arrive by the time the contractions are coming close together you can call Constance’s doctor who will guide you through the whole thing, it’s not rocket science, mate, I promise.”_

“Can’t you come?” he asks, not the slightest bit embarrassed that is comes out sounding whiny.

_“If I can I will. But the problem isn’t so much getting away from here, it’s getting there. Look, let me see what I can do, alright? I’ll get back to you.”_

Aramis shuts the phone and goes back to the bathroom and knocks on the door. “Constance, you ok in there, luv?”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking a poop on my own thank you,” she retorts but it’s followed by a loud groan and Aramis stiffens.

“Are you sure you’re aalright? And aren’t we supposed to be timing the contractions?” he queries worriedly.

“Yes and not yet,” Constance replies, “they’re too far apart. Make yourself useful and find me a clean track suit and some knickers, you know you’ve always wanted to go through my underwear drawer, haven’t you,” she tells him with typical Constance snark, “and a t shirt, look in the closet, there’s only track suits and t shirts anyway since I’m too bloody fat to wear anything else,” she complains. “And call my not-husband, will you? We should probably inform the baby’s father about now.”

Aramis goes into Constance and d’Artagnan’s bedroom and he dutifully finds the items she has requested without spending too much time looking because that would just be creepy. He’s lucky she has her clothes hanging in very neat order so he finds a grey track suit and a pink tee easily and literally grabs the first pair of underpants he finds in the top drawer of the dresser and hopes it’s not d’Artagnan’s.

_D’Artagnan._

Aramis is torn. If he calls him and the situation at Whitehall truly is serious he could very well put his brother in grave danger if he loses focus. But if he doesn’t call him and something goes wrong he will feel guilty for the rest of his life. What the fuck should he do?

Porthos. He’ll ask Porthos, he’ll know what’s best.

“Aramis!” Constance demands, “what the fuck is taking you so long?”

Aramis shuts the drawer and takes the few steps back to the bathroom. “Um, are you decent?” he asks tentatively.

“I’m in the shower,” she calls out. “Leave the clothes on the hamper, will you?” 

Aramis does as he’s told and then waits outside the door again, and he takes the opportunity to text Porthos.

_‘Are you busy can I ring you?’_

Aramis waits patiently but no reply comes. He sends another. 

_‘Brother it’s important’_

A full five minutes pass and Constance is emerging from the bathroom, her hair pinned up, dressed in the clean clothes and looking less harried but her face is still pinched in pain. There is still no reply from Porthos and Aramis decides not to ring him in front of Constance.

“Did you find d’Artagnan?” she asks as she bee-lines for the sofa.

“No, but he’ll see my call and ring us back,” Aramis lies smoothly. “Until then let’s just relax and you can tell me how we’re supposed to time your contractions.”

Constance lets out a loud sigh. “It’s saved in a folder on my phone, can you open it? I’m feeling a bit dizzy to be honest.”

“Do you have a blood pressure cuff? I want to check that everything’s alright, luv, especially if you’re feeling dizzy.”

Constance nods. “In the bathroom cupboard, another place I bet you’ve probably been dying to inspect,” she huffs and Aramis very glad that she seems well enough to take the piss out of him.

“Who says I haven’t? You’ve been living here for ages,” he counters and he hurries to find it, ducking the slipper projectile she’s tossed at his retreated back.

He returns to the lounge to find her looking suspiciously close to tears. His heart stutters and so do his words.

“Constance…what…oh, please don’t cry, darling,” Aramis says gently and sits beside her, very carefully pulling her into his embrace. “I never thought I’d see the day…” he teases.

“You can be the best friend or biggest wanker when you want to be,” Constance grouses, her voice catching as the tears spill. “This is not how this was supposed to ‘appen, and to be honest I’m a little frightened.”

“This coming from the woman who saved my life…with a bullet wound in her shoulder…from a gang of armed terrorists!” Aramis scolds. “Besides, I’m sure the ambulance will be here way before you need to be worried about anything.” 

“Maybe, but what about d’Artagnan? He’s supposed to be there, we had it all planned.”

“My dear Constance, you should know better that anyone about the best laid plans and all the etcetera. And anyway, we don’t know that he won’t make it to the hospital in time, I’ll ring him again, I’ll even ring Ryder if you like,” Aramis fibs; anything to keep her calm and the baby safe. “And Reina said she will try and find a way to get here and wait with us, knowing her she’ll walk,” Aramis adds, knowing that his girl is capable of doing something that silly to help a person in need, it’s why she is so good at her job, she truly cares about people.

Constance stiffens in his arms and groans loudly, which is followed by a mouthful of profanity; now that’s the Constance he knows and loves!

“We need to time the contractions, so no more waterworks,” Aramis tells her firmly and he pulls away from her carefully to check for the file on her phone. 

“Yes…yes, I think they’re coming a bit closer,” she answers, breathless. “Use your fancy Tag, it’ll be the most accurate. Oh, you little fucker why couldn’t you call in sick?” she moans, turning her anger towards the absent d’Artagnan.

Aramis feels a shiver, the tiniest feeling of foreboding, something his Spanish granny would call a ghost walking on your grave, and he pushes it aside. Nothing will go wrong, he tells himself firmly, d’Artagnan will be fine, Constance will be fine…everyone will be fine, and a healthy baby will be in their mother’s arms before they know it.

 

*************************************************

 

When the frantic call comes in from Counter-terrorism headquarters that there’s a possibly a live explosive device on the third floor d’Artagnan is no longer on the sixth floor with his old colleagues. He’s been called down to the first where he finds two members of Sergeant Andrews’ armed unit arguing with Beetle over what they are calling a suspicious device in the room with the copier. Beetle looks exasperated and ready to punch someone and d’Artagnan shoos everyone out to have a look at the piece of hardware that’s caused the ruckus. He stifles the urge to laugh but he is aware of the fact that not everyone knows what the intestines of a super computer look like and he finds that it's actually just a box full of parts, probably dumped there by some lazy tech who didn’t want to schlep to the recycling area in the basement. 

Heading for the stairs, d’Artagnan takes the call from Tei like he takes every call with disturbing news; calmly. He may be famously reckless when it comes to himself but never, ever when the lives of others are in his hands. 

“All call signs,” he says clearly into his comms device. “We have a live threat, third floor ceiling tiles, evacuate immediately, thorough check of all toilets, break rooms, cupboards, I need someone to evacuate floor six, Alpha One coordinate, I’m headed to meet the bomb squad.”

“Beetle, when you get everyone off this floor go up to the roof, make sure there’s no errant smokers, confirm that the lift is indeed empty,” d’Artagnan says over his shoulder and he heads down to the lobby, his worry for Athos who is up on six nagging at him but he has a job to do so he forces it aside for the moment.

Every person in the building needs to be accounted for and at the moment the chaos in reception and the growing panic is not helping. Outside, the snow is coming down heavier than ever and the buses that’ve been called by Ryder to assist in the evacuation have yet to arrive. For now, Mouse is collecting everyone’s security cards and literally shoving people out the door and into the freezing cold for their own safety, while one of the armed officers runs the key cards through the machine in order to get an accurate head count; whoever clocked in must clock out or there is the possibility of loss of life. 

The bomb disposal team arrives behind a snow plow; apparently someone had been bright enough to co-opt one to clear the way for their van to get through the streets quickly. It’s a four person team, three men and a woman and d’Artagnan personally escorts them to the third floor where he leaves the situation in their capable hands; this is one area in which he has little expertise and even less enthusiasm to learn; the thin, white scar on his face is a testament to what happens when you mess with what you don’t know.

He returns to the reception area where he doesn’t see Treville or Athos. He quickly asks the officer scanning the IDs to check if they’ve evacuated and he gets a sick feeling in his belly when he’s told that Treville has but Athos hasn’t.

“Who was in charge of evacuating the sixth floor?” d’Artagnan demands of the officers assembled as well as his own people.

“Andrews, but he’s gone now, Special Advisor Treville’s sent him to No. 10 with an urgent message,” one of the officers, a young Asian bloke who looks terrified of d’Artagnan replies hesitantly. 

“And where is Treville?”

“Gone, with the Minister, to a crisis meeting,” the same officer answers.

“Ryder, how many unaccounted for?”

Ryder shakes his head. “Still counting, boss, and we’ve still got people checking the loos ‘n all that.”

Standing at least half a head taller than most of the people assembled d’Artagnan scans the room for any sign of Athos. When there is none, he turns back to Ryder.

He removes the bulky automatic weapon from where it’s hanging over his shoulder and he hands it to Ryder. “I’m going up to six, Athos isn’t here and his key card hasn’t been logged, I’m leaving it to you to get these people out as soon as humanly possible,” d'Artagnan calls over his shoulder and he heads to the stairs, taking them two at a time until he find Athos, struggling on the landing of the fourth floor, winded and trembling, as he tries to make his way downward.

“Oh you stupid sod, why didn’t you get someone to help you?” d’Artagnan scolds. There is a line of sweat running down Athos’ face from his hairline despite the chill in the stairwell and his expression clearly says that he’s in pain.

“I needed to lock down the server and that idiot, Andrews I think he said his name was, came up in a panic and ordered everyone out and they followed. I didn’t realise it would be so…difficult,” he murmurs, leaving heavily on d’Artagnan, who easily takes most of his weight. 

“And he didn’t wait for the floor to clear before leaving?” d’Artagnan asks, incredulous. “You should have rung me or at least asked someone to get you some assistance before they cleared out,” he says sternly, helping his brother carefully down the steps until they reach the landing between the third and fourth floors where Athos needs to stop for a breather.

“It’s so much worse than they’d predicted,” Athos admits reluctantly and d’Artagnan feels his heart go out to his friend and brother, he’s been so careful to keep his pain and his weakness to himself that none of them could have known it was actually this bad. And d’Artagnan knows that he has issues with pain medication; Athos is quite literally terrified of addiction, not without good reasons of course, his brother in arms had almost fallen into the abyss of drink and drugs after the loss of his family, something he obviously never wants to face again.

“You should have said,” d’Artagnan tells him earnestly. “It kills me to imagine you’ve been suffering in silence when you didn’t have to. But you’re a stubborn pain in the arse aren’t you?”

“Pot, kettle, we’re all stubborn I’d say…and probably far too proud,” Athos muses wryly, and they begin their descent once more.

There’s cursing and shouting coming from the other side of the door as they get closer to the third floor landing and d’Artagnan startles and comes to a halt.

“They’re still trying to deactivate the device,” d’Artagnan says, both to himself and Athos, and he gets a feeling as the shouting become louder, a very _bad_ feeling. He knows that these operatives are the best at what they do, there is no room for error when it comes to explosive devices and every single man and woman on the squad is highly trained and experienced. If they’re having a hard time it could only mean that someone or _something_ from outside is controlling the device and somehow overriding their efforts.

Instinct kicks in and years of experience takes control of his brain and he literally lifts Athos around the waist and pulls him back up to the landing, dragging him up the stairs instead of down, and Athos doesn’t protest, doesn’t question him, because d’Artagnan knows that his brother trusts his tactical decisions implicitly.

When the world explodes around them, there are no last thoughts, there’s no meaningful, shared gaze with Athos who’s been torn away from him, no images of Constance and their baby; his life doesn’t flash before his eyes like a video of memories, it’s just deafeningly loud and he can’t breathe from the smoke and the dust…and from the force of his back and head being slammed against a hard surface and the debris that hits him square in the abdomen.

And then just like that, everything just goes black.

 

To be continued....


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! A bit of writer's block struck and when it was finally done my beta, the lovely Arduna, was away and I could not post it without her input because this time she TRULY whipped it into shape. So, massive thanks to Arduna, all typos etc are mine of course, and thanks to my readers for your patience, updates will be more regular from now on:)

The Range Rover, driven by Danny has made record time in the snow-covered streets, and they are just meters away from the MoD when suddenly the jeep shudders and shakes, the ground below them vibrating like an earthquake has just torn through central London. Danny slams on the clutch and the brakes, narrowly avoids hitting the pavement and he throws the jeep into neutral and then pulls back hard on the hand brake.

For a moment they remain frozen in shock, staring in numb silence…because it’s no earthquake.

The rumbling that had literally shaken Porthos’ bones was caused by an explosion in the MoD’s support building…the _Agency’s_ building…and Porthos, stunned and horrified, reaches for the door handle and stumbles out onto the snow-covered street. He’s met half way between the jeep and the now-burning building by Mouse who informs his boss with his voice shaking with naked emotion that Athos, d’Artagnan and four members of the bomb disposal unit had been inside.

Porthos can barely hear what he’s saying over the crack and pop of glass breaking and secondary explosions caused by the ensuing fire, but the look of utter devastation on the other man’s face tells Porthos all he needs to know; this is bad, this is very, _very_ bad.

Debris litters the snow-covered street, civilians and law enforcement alike are running away from the flying glass and bits of concrete and wood that continue to fall. There are splatters of blood here and there in the snow but thankfully no bodies. For a few minutes they can only take cover and watch as burning debris spatters down making dark holes in the snow on the pavements, and fluttering ashes mingle with the snowflakes drifting down like macabre ticker-tape.

When the explosions taper off and the metaphoric dust clears, the shouting begins.

Porthos looks around slowly, and he feels like he’s in dream…more likely a nightmare…as police officers and MoD and Agency employees, in varying states of shock, horror and fear, all seem to find their voices at the same time and Porthos thinks his head might _also_ explode from the sudden rush of noise, the shouting and sobbing becomes overwhelming and he literally covers his ears against the sounds.

Numb, Porthos stumbles forward, and he’s immediately assaulted by the déjà vu of France and of Constance, and the horrific irony of being helpless once again, facing the unimaginable and with no way of stopping it, watching in paralysed fear as flames begin to lick at the upper floors through the broken windows. While the building seems to have retained its structural integrity large chunks of concrete and glass are missing from the middle section of the structure and black smoke is billowing from the open spaces, burning Porthos’ eyes and his throat. If it’s this bad out here, he thinks, what must it have been like inside? And in that instant he realises what his professional mind has known from the moment of the explosion; they’re _gone_ , anyone inside could not have survived the violence of the huge eruption that has literally blown out the centre section of the glass and steel building.

Ryder is shouting into comms, calling for the fire brigade and a rescue squad, emergency medical assistance and more Met armed units for crowd control. Ryder seems to have it all in hand, Porthos thinks, oddly calm, he’s a good lad, well trained and responsible, so now I can just go, leave, strip off all the fucking gear, throw the weapons in a dumpster bin and just walk away and never look back. He turns around and heads back to the jeep; it’s not the first time that he’s considered throwing in the towel but he’s never actually been as ready to actually do so as he is at that moment.

“Sir…sir, where are you going?” Danny asks urgently. The young tech looks shell-shocked and confused and his eyes are definitely damp; yes, of course, he’d known d’Artagnan well, gaming nights with Tei and some of the others, their lad was friendly and affable, not many people disliked d’Artagnan, not even those who were envious of him could ever really hate him.  


Pothos takes a few more steps, snow crunching under his boots and he stops when a gentle hand tugs at his arm.

“Sir, you’re needed, SO25…Ryder, he wants permission to take his team inside,” Danny tells him, sounding frantic.

Porthos looks at him like he’s mad and shakes him off. “No, absolutely not, ‘e waits for the rescue teams, I won’t lose more good men.”

“Boss, Athos and d’Artagnan are in there!” Tei jumps in, frustrated. “We can’t wait, I’m going too.”

Jane appears beside her two colleagues and Porthos looks at three of them, considering. “Which of you has seniority?”

Danny takes a step forward looking utterly bewildered. “Me I guess.”

“Alright then, you’re in charge, I quit.”

“Sir? What? You can’t….I can’t…” the young man says, horrified.

Porthos turns to Tei. “Then you…”

Tei looks furious. “With all due respect Boss, _fuck you_ , I’m going inside with Ryder!”

“Shut up all of you,” Jane hisses angrily. “For fucks’ sake all of you just calm down! You,” she tells Danny, “you’re now in charge of all comms, you can certainly handle that without getting your knickers in a twist, can’t you? And you,” she says to Tei “if you’re going in get suited up properly, gas mask, gloves the whole kit, or I’ll have you detained, and you,” she tells Porthos, “are coming with me,” she informs her boss firmly.

Porthos gapes at her, speechless, as she fearlessly imitates his own command style without batting an eye.

“I was an armed police officer when these two were still playing Nintendo Cube and GI Joes, this is not my first rodeo, sir. Now I suggest you take a few moments to calm yourself from the shock, I know that there are two people you care for dearly in that building so your momentary lapse has already been forgotten. Until you are ready _I_ am in charge. You,” she says to Tei “Crack on, tell SO25 they have permission to enter in full emergency kit and using extreme caution.” 

Tei obviously doesn’t need to be told twice and Danny, still looking shaky but more in control heads over to the comms van to take charge. Jane meanwhile literally drags the shocked Porthos by the arm to where the command post tent has been pulled back 50 meters or so away from the burning building and she pushes him into a folding chair and hands him one of the steaming cups of tea that one of the Mets is handing out.

“Have you known them long? The men inside.”

Porthos blinks and realises that she’s speaking to him. “Um yeah, we were Team 3, Agency, with two others; Aramis, the firearms instructor and Constance, the lad’s wife,” he says dully remembering suddenly that someone needs to tell Constance…. Constance who is eight and half months pregnant. “She’s pregnant,” Porthos adds hoarsely, “he was gonna be a dad….”

“And he still will be,” Jane tells his steadily, taking a tea for herself. The wail of approaching sirens effectivley ends their conversation and Jane hurries to inform the firefighters and the rescue team that have just skidded up behind them of what’s happened. Porthos follows her stiffly and listens impressed as she explains where the bomb went off, how many possible victims, the number of SO25 officers already inside. More sirens sound as ambulances and Met police units arrive and they all look to Jane for instructions and Porthos is truly awed by her calm and her efficiency. She’s being wasted working with the techs he thinks, she reminds him of Constance who was both a badass field agent and a computer genius, he needs to tell Athos about her…

The thought sends a spike of pain straight through Porthos gut.

Athos has been his friend and his brother in arms for so long it seems as if he’s known him forever. Always the gentleman, his Oxbridge education and aristocratic upbringing had never stood between them, quite the opposite, Athos has always been very self-deprecating and remarkably humble. Porthos on the other hand had been a thief and a conman, raised by a string of relatives after the deaths of his parents; his mother from an accidental overdose of prescription meds and his father a heart attack not long after. His council estate background, his common speech and lack of formal education had never come between them, Athos simply is not like those snobby tossers he’d grown up with, he’s kind and genuine….and now he’s gone.

He must have said it out loud because Jane turns to him and gives him a furious glare. “Sir, we have no idea that anyone is gone!” she hisses, clearly frustrated by Porthos’ unexpected loss of focus. 

The snow has stopped for the moment…thank fuck for small blessings, Porthos thinks dully, and he nods, watching as everyone hurries into action. Two more Range Rovers pull up and Porthos sees Sylvie emerge from one and Treville from the other and he feels such a rush of relief he thinks he might actually weep.

“The cleaning company and all of their employees have been secured and we’re re-checking every building they service. What’s happening here?” Sylvie asks in a rush, probably still unaware of the fact that they have possible casualties.

They’re both looking at him with trepidation and Porthos can’t find his voice. He turns to Jane and she immediately takes the lead.

“Four members of the Bomb Disposal Unit were inside along with one SO25 operative and the MoD’s Agency liaison,” she explains carefully. No prizes for guessing who the SO25 operative is and they all know full well that the other person is Athos.

Treville gasps sharply and stumbles, and he’s steadied by Lemay who’s just appeared at his side, but Sylvie doesn’t flinch, doesn’t bat an eye, she just nods slowly and follows Jane towards the command post, Porthos and the others trailing behind.

“So is this a rescue or a recovery?” Sylvie asks Porthos calmly, who falls into a chair and shakes his head. “I don’t know. SO25, and Tei I think, have gone in to assess, the fire brigade is inside as well, I just don’t know anything else yet,” he explains quietly and at that moment Jane’s comms crackle and they all hear – thank fuck – Ryder’s voice.

 _“Alpha team, abort, I repeat abort, we need to come back in from the roof,”_ they hear Ryder say and thankfully Mouse, Beetle and Tei all confirm, which means that they haven’t been injured while searching for survivors. There’s no reply from d’Artagnan though who would have heard them if he had working comms…and if he could reply…and that weighs heavy on all of them.

“Who the fuck is responsible for this cock-up?” Treville demands. “This building was supposed to be cleared and safe!”

“At the moment that’s the last thing on my mind, sir,” Sylvie replies sternly. “Right now we need to find out if anyone is still alive in there and if so get them out as soon as possible.”

“I agree,” Lemay adds. “Has anyone tried their mobiles?” 

Everyone turns to Lemay, looking at him as if he’s just discovered penicillin and Jane grins and holds out her hand for Porthos’ phone. 

“Athos is speed dial 3, the boy 4,” he says shakily and he waits silently as Jane puts it on speaker and tries to connect.

Athos’ phone rings ten times and everyone shares their disappointment silently. On the eleventh ring, they collectively hold their breaths as it seems as if someone has answered. 

_“Porthos…is that you?”_

 

*************************************

 

“Has that idiot still not rung you back?”

Aramis looks at his phone and shakes his head. “With the weather like this my love I bet Porthos has his teams shuttling people around and assisting local police, don’t worry, we still have plenty of time.”

Constance is so miserably uncomfortable and in pain that practically nothing Aramis could say at this point would soothe her. Unless he was to announce that both d’Artagnan and the ambulance have arrived of course, but she has a sinking feeling that neither of those things will be happening any time soon. 

She awkwardly gets up off the sofa and begins to pace. Aramis is trying very hard to remain calm and she loves him for it but there in an undercurrent there, something he’s hiding, whether it’s fear or not she can’t tell because Aramis is a master at deception and he often uses humour, flattery and misdirection to keep a situation controlled but Constance is not fooled by his relaxed demeanour, she knows him too well. There’s something he’s not telling her, whether it’s about d’Artagnan’s whereabouts or their immediate situation she doesn’t know. The one thing she is certain of though is that she is safe with him; no matter what happens, Constance knows that Aramis will do everything in his power to make sure that both she and her unborn baby are safe…or he will die trying.

Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that though, eh?

“I can hear you worrying,” Aramis teases from where he’s sitting on the sofa, fiddling with his phone, and she sticks out her tongue at him.

“All men should be required by law to carry a sack of potatoes strapped to their bellies for nine months at least once in their lifetime,” she retorts. She’s often told d’Artagnan that men should be forced to feel period pain at least once in their lives because she’s been shot more that once but nothing compares to the feeling some unfortunate women face every month, some for hours, some for days, of their uterus trying to push its way out of their bodies, because as least for Constance that’s what it often feels like. And all so they can reproduce and men can then _ahh_ and _coo_ over their offspring and brag to their mates about their achievements while having done fuck all to carry and bring said offspring into the world. 

“You know me, darling, anything for the feminist cause,” Aramis tells her and although he’s taking the piss she does know that despite being a famous ‘libertine’…as Athos once jokingly called him…he truly does have respect for women and gender equality. And besides, it looks like he may have finally put that part of his life behind him; he and Reina are discussing cohabitation, something that Aramis has never considered before. Granted, spies couldn’t easily have regular relationships but now that he is semi-retired and his job as a fire-arms instructor is relatively safe and tame compared to what he used to do, it’s finally the right moment for Aramis to be with someone who makes him happy, full time. At least Constance hopes so.

“It’s stopped snowing,” he remarks, glancing out of the balcony doors. “Hopefully we’ll get that ambulance here sooner than later. In the meanwhile, can I make you some tea? Or get you some juice?” he asks solicitously.

“As a feminist I am offended that you think I can’t do that for myself just because I’m about to eject a watermelon-sized human out of my vagina.”

Aramis laughs, an honest, hearty sound that comes from deep in his chest and Constance sees some of the trepidation he’s been trying so hard to hide slip away. So she goes in the kill.  


“We’ve been friends forever, yeah? Best mates, really, because aside from Ellie you’ve been my closest confidante. So I’m gonna ask you straight out, are you keeping something from me? Because if you are you know I won’t be ‘appy with you, mate, not one bit,” she warns.

Aramis’ expression goes from surprised to guilty to somewhat resigned all in the space of a few seconds. “No, I’m not, I promise, I’m just a bit, you know, scared,” he says smoothly. Constance now knows he is telling at least half of the truth, Aramis can’t usually outright lie to her without her knowing, but she doesn’t push. At this point she’s not even sure if she wants to know.

“Scared that you’ll have to deliver the baby yourself or scared that something will go wrong?”

“No! Nothing will go wrong,” Aramis tells her vehemently and he gets to his feet and pulls her into a gentle hug. “I’ve never delivered a baby, you know, and I hate the fact that d’Artagnan might not make it here or to the hospital in time, he’s been looking forward to this from the minute you told him you were expecting.”

At that moment Constance is assaulted by a particularly strong contraction and she gasps and sags into Aramis who immediately tightens his grip on her and he buries his face in her hair.  


“You’re fine, my love, just breathe and ride it out,” he soothes into her ear and at that moment tears prick her eyes. It should be d’Artagnan holding her, it should be the father of her baby calming her, but in all honesty if it can’t be d’Artagnan, Aramis is surely the next best thing.

“I’m ok,” she says shakily and Aramis loosens his grip on her and leads her back to the sofa where he helps her sit back against the pillows and he pulls the futon close for her feet.

“The contractions are still too far apart for us to panic, you know, there’s plenty of time for the ambulance to arrive before I have to play obstetrician.”

Constance barks out a laugh. “I bet that’s your favorite game,” she snarks.

Aramis smirks. “Shame on you,” he mock scolds.

“Wanna know a secret? I was only d’Artagnan’s second ever lover. According to his mum he was an awkward, skinny computer geek in secondary school, same at Uni, still would be if Treville hadn’t sent him off to the army. He changed overnight there mind you, he said he was suddenly living every war-game-addicted boy’s dream, but with live fire of course.”

“So who was his first?” Aramis queries.

“A girl called Julie who was in his course. Apparently they de-virginised each other.”

Aramis chuckles. “I find that really hard to believe, your lad is extremely attractive and quite fit.”

“Yes he is thank you, but he wasn’t then, or at least he hid it under his Pokemon t-shirts and baggy jeans and a really bad Justin Bieber-esque haircut. That’s what he looked like when I met him in Treville’s office by the way, he’d just finished his SAS training so he was quite fit, but still kind of awkward. After basic training they’d let him grow out his hair to mix in at Special Forces so when I first laid eyes on him I actually giggled. Later that day we had a shag in the ladies’ toilet of a nearby pub. It was awful but I fell madly in love regardless.”

Aramis nods and smiles fondly. “And then you went to Leeds to train in day to day operations…as a fake-slash-real couple?”

Constance grimaces and grips her belly, breathing slowly as she was taught to before she answers. “Yes, it was fucking amazing,” she admits. “We were very professional of course, Treville said we were one of the best duos he’s ever seen in the Agency, but we were sharing a bed…and a futon and a sofa and a…”

Aramis holds up his hand and grimaces. “TMI, luv, I get it, you’ve been going at it like bunnies – with birth control – from day one. And then one day the condom broke and we have our very own baby bunny on the way.”

Constance giggles. “No, not a broken condom, I was off the pill while that wanker Rochefort was holding me, and then things just happened and in all honesty we were both really thrilled.”

“And so are we,” Aramis tells her quietly, his expression fond. “It’s a good thing Porthos and Ellie have Marie and now you and the lad have baby bunny coming so that Athos and I can play doting uncles without the diaper changing, the stinky vomit and the 4 am feedings.”

“So you’re saying that you and Athos will never be fathers? Why?”

Aramis sighs. “Athos has been to hell and back and now, with his injury he’s become even more cynical if that’s even possible. As for myself I am too impulsive and too selfish to ever be a parent, trust me.”

“Impulsive is my _not_ -husband’s middle name, mate, but I know he’ll be a good father,” she counters.

“True but the pair of you are one of those rare couples who are truly, deeply, madly in love, it’s not like that for everyone. Plus raising a child costs a small fortune and I don’t think I’m all that keen to be putting kids through Uni when I’m in my sixties and living on a state pension.”

Constance baulks. “You own a flat in Westminster…worth millions I’d wager.”

Aramis grins. “You didn’t really think I bought that my place myself did you? It belonged to my grandparents, luv, they’d bought it ages ago as an investment back when property was affordable. It was a run-down mess back then, but when the market soared the owners gentrified the whole building. It was given it to me as an incentive to stay in London after the army and only since we left Guildford and broke up the Team have I actually lived in it.”

“So sell it and move ‘round here and you’ll have plenty of money to send kids to Uni when you’re in your sixties.”

“I doubt it, but never say never right? Except for Athos of course, if he says never, it actually means _never_.”

Constance feels a pain in her gut that has nothing to doing with her impending childbirth. “He’s been miserable for months now, d’Artagnan has tried so hard to get him out of his funk, I know you all have, and Sylvie has been very patient, but I’m really worried. He’s taking the idea of being permanently disabled a lot harder than I would have expected from someone as strong as Athos.”

Aramis doesn’t reply and Constance glances over to see him scrolling on his phone. “There’s no wifi,” she says, curious.

“Yes, I flipped on my mobile data, to check the weather,” Aramis replies distracted and suddenly a lot more tense that he’d been just a minute before.

“And?” she demands. “Are we expecting a Tsunami now on top of the blizzard?”

Aramis shuts the phone and tosses it onto the cushions far away from the both of them. “No, no of course not, it’s expected to improve as a matter of fact,” he informs her and Constance can tell that his is preoccupied with something…something he’d seen on his phone.

But she doesn’t press him because she is suddenly assaulted by a very intense contraction and she knows that they are now getting closer. “Aramis can you ring my doctor again? Tell her how far apart the contractions are,” she gasps, feeling breathless.

“Is there anything else going on that she should know?” Aramis presses, taking her pulse.

“No, I’m alright, considering,” Constance admits. “It could have been worse and it’s really not that horrible.”

“I thought it was all midwives these days, I’m surprised your doctor is so hands on.”

“Yeah, well, we’re friends and I guess since we’re in a bit of a sticky situation she wants to be on top of everything, just in case…” she says, trailing off and she bites her lip wondering if her doctor is also keeping something from her.

“Bollocks, what if she tells me to see if you’ve dilated?” Aramis asks, looking quite mortified.

“Then I’ll lie on the bed and spread my legs so you can stick your hand in my vagina,” she deadpans and in all honesty she has never seen Aramis look so horrified at the prospect of touching a woman’s vagina.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Aramis whispers, eyes wide and expression almost comical. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Constance sighs and hands over her phone so he can make the call. “You and me both mate, you and me both.”

To be continued….


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much love to Arduna who is constantly fixing my typos and my plot errors, thanks so much my dear friend!

The first thing that registers when Athos opens his grit-covered eyes is that something is very wrong with his already mangled right leg.

The second thing is relief because at this point if everything else is intact he simply doesn’t care if they cut the fucking thing off since it’s what got him into this mess in the first place, him and d’Artagnan.

_D’Artagnan!_

There’s not much chance for any further musings though because he begins to cough, choke really, on the black smoke coming in from behind the walls of rubble surrounding him, it’s burning his eyes and his nose and his throat and he somehow manages to pull his jumper up over his face with his shaking and bloodied – but thankfully working! – hands and he needs a moment to think, to focus, before he can assess his surroundings, his physical condition and see if there is any sign of d’Artagnan.

Every inch of his body feels bruised and there is quite a bit of blood on his hands but aside from his right leg that probably had something smash into it, most likely crushing the useless thing for good this time, Athos doesn’t think he has any further serious injuries. He can hear sirens outside but there is no window on the landing where he and d’Artagnan had ended up when the bomb had gone off so it’s hard to tell what time of day it is but there are tiny pinpricks of light coming through the piles of debris so he assumes not much time has passed between the blast and that moment so it must be around noon. 

The smoke creeping through the concrete and metal lessens almost at once after he hears the faint sound of shattering glass somewhere above them; Athos wonders if it’s the fire brigade’s doing or if the glass simply couldn’t withstand the heat but it’s probably the reason that the smoke begins to clear and he pulls his jumper down away from his mouth and nose. He wipes one hand down his face to try and clear some of the dust and soot away and he realises that he must have superficial cuts peppering his face and neck because they begin to sting and his palm comes away wet which means blood.

“D’Artagnan?” he says hoarsely, but it’s barely a croak so he tries again. “D’Artagnan!”

“Athos?” The sound is breathless and faint but it’s him, thank you God, it’s him!

“Where are you lad? I can’t see you.”

“Just a few…feet from you I suspect, can you find me by my voice?”

Athos realises at once that he’s literally just 2 or three feet to his right, but there’s a large piece of concrete beside his head blocking his view, maybe the one that fell on his thigh and then rolled off. Using his hands as leverage he tries to pull himself up to sit. It takes forever and he wants to literally scream in pain but he doesn’t…for so many reasons, the first of which is the boy; he has no idea how badly he's hurt and until he sees him he is determined to keep himself calm.

When he’s sitting up he needs a few seconds to calm his breathing and get a grip on his pain before he can speak again. The first thing he does is take a good look at the wrecked stairwell, trying to assess the structural damage around them before attempting to move towards the sound of the lad’s voice. 

Mangled rebar, broken drywall and concrete surround a small pocket of the floor of the landing. The fact that the stairs haven’t collapsed or sustained more damage is probably due to their steel construction. But the interior walls of the stairwell and the ceiling seem to have suffered substantial damage and are the source of the rubble around them, and the door that leads to the fourth floor is blocked as are the steps descending. The stairs leading up are only partially covered with debris but Athos doesn’t think going up, even if he could, would be a very smart idea at the moment.

“Athos?”

The sound of his voice is far too weak for his liking. Athos turns towards the outer wall of the stairwell and using his good left leg and his hands on the floor on either side of him he begins to drag himself closer to where he can now see d’Artagnan’s boots.

“Wait, I’ve got…a torch on my vest,” the lad says. It takes him a few seconds to retrieve it and the sounds he’s making while he’s rummaging through his pockets are not to Athos’ liking. When he flicks it on Athos cannot hide his physical reaction to what he sees.

D’Artagnan is lying on his back on an angle, just beside the top step, his body wedged between a large piece of concrete on his right that had fallen on the stairs and the partially damaged but intact outer wall. His face is covered in dust and he’s suffered a few shallow-looking cuts, and his arms and legs look for the most part whole, but there seems to be something lodged under his kit vest. When Athos looks closer he realizes in horror that there’s a piece of rebar impaling him just above his belt and somewhere below his Kevlar and his utility vest. How deep it goes and if he’s pinned by it Athos had no idea.

And he’s terrified to ask.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” d’Artagnan says shakily. “Thank fuck you’re alive, what about you…that looks like blood…on your thigh…”

Athos takes a deep, steadying breath. “Yes, it’s mostly useless and it hurts like the fucking devil’s taken his pitchfork to me but I’ll live, I promise. Child, are you pinned or is it just…”

“No, it’s stuck in my abdomen…but I’m not pinned. But I…I can’t move, it ‘urts too much.”

“Alright, you know the drill, as long as we don’t remove it you’ll be fine,” Athos soothes and he continues to drag himself forward, using his left leg and his hands to propel him until he manages to make it to d’Artagnan, and he leans back against the wall, which is alarmingly warm, probably from the fire but he pushes it aside as he really can’t do anything about that at the moment.

“Are your comms working?” Athos asks at once.

“No, tried, it’s all dead and I…can’t find my phone. You?”

“I don’t even know,” Athos says, huffing out a surprised laugh that he hadn’t even considered it. His first priority had been d’Artagnan and he starts patting the pockets of his trousers, looking for his mobile.

“Athios, there's a roll of bandages…in the third pocket of my vest. You’ve got to wrap your leg or you’ll lose it.”

“Phone first, we need help,” he mutters, and he can’t seem to find his damn phone.

“No, you need to control the bleeding first,” d’Artagnan insists with surprising force. His breathing is shallow and Athos is worried about shock and internal bleeding and…

“Athos, do it now! If you pass out from blood loss I may die here alone!”

That does it of course because the sneaky boy knows his weak spot and he has just pushed down on it… _hard_.

With shaking hands Athos leans over and peels back the Velcro tab on the third pocket of d’Artagnan’s vest and retrieves a first aid kit.

“I’ve forgotten how well equipped you lot are, good thing too,” Athos says and he can barely control his hands to break the seal on the roll of bandages. It takes him a few tries and d’Artagnan keeps the torch on his leg, his hand surprisingly steady while Athos works the bandage around his thigh. It’s a slow and painful process and Athos bites down hard on his lip more than once to keep from screaming out and when he’s done he uses the small metallic clips from inside the packet to keep the bandage in place.

“Now, take a couple of those wipes, clean you face and you hands,” d’Artagnan urges and Athos wearily obeys. The lad looks very, very close to losing consciousness and he doesn’t want to upset him further.

When Athos is finished d’Artagnan turns off the torch and lets it drop onto the floor beside him before he sags visibly, all the fight appearing to go out of him.

“D’Artagnan!” Athos says sharply but there's no need to panic, even in the semi-darkness Athos can see he’s not fallen unconscious, he just looks very exhausted and probably in a lot of pain. 

“There’s ibuprofen in that kit,” Athos says in a rush. “I’ll give you a few and then look around for my phone alright?”

‘No, I can’t take them,” d’Artagnan answers quietly. “There’s a bottle of water…in the pocket...on my left thigh. Since my trousers…don’t feel wet it’s probably still intact. Take four tablets, I need you alert so you have to…dim the pain.”

Athos baulks. “And you?” he demands.

“Brother, listen to me, and do _not_ …freak out,” d’Artagnan says, his words coming in short bursts as if he needs to catch his breath in between. “I’ve probably got some kind of…internal bleeding…I can taste blood…in the back of my throat. That means I shouldn’t drink anything or swallow anything…”

“Oh God,” Athos moans, unable to stop his reaction. 

“Athos, if you don’t calm down we’ll both die here!”

Athos looks at him, the younger man’s face mostly shadows but he sees the tight set of his jaw and he feels so proud and so fucking lost at the same time. _I won’t fail him_ , he vows, _I can’t_. Numbly he takes four 200 mg tablets of ibuprofen from the small first aid kit and swallows them with a mouthful of water from the full bottle he’d retrieved from d’Artagnan’s pocket. He carefully closes the top tightly and sets the water aside for later.

There is still some smoke in the small area where they’re trapped but significantly less and Athos takes that as a good sign. Neither of them is coughing and his eyes are no longer stinging like they were before.

“Alright, what about you?” Athos asks hoarsely. 

D’Artagnan sighs. “There’s nothing we can do for the…moment. You can’t pull it out…and I don’t think I’m hurt anywhere else…aside from some massive bruising on my back, maybe some broken ribs, but…nothing to be done.”

“So we do nothing?” Athos asks, shocked. 

“No, not nothing, you can try…and find your phone…get us help. If you can’t you’ll need to find..something, a piece of metal or a…chunk of concrete to make noise with, so they’ll…hear us, know we’re alive,” d’Artagnan explains patiently and once again Athos is struck by a sense of pride; the lad has matured, and as always he’s resourceful and focused, qualities Athos often forgets when he’s angry and giving him a bollocking over some reckless thing he’s done to put himself in danger. Once again though he’s reminded of the lives the boy has saved and he suddenly feels hopeful; they will get out of there, with their combined efforts and a bit of luck they’ll be fine.

They’re both shocked by the sound of Athos’ ringtone, and even more shocked when they realise where it’s coming from; the floor just beyond d’Artagnan’s boots. It takes some painful manoeuvring for Athos to reach it and when he does he sees it’s Porthos.

“Porthos,” he breathes, so God damn relieved. “Is that you?”

 _“Who else would it be, brother? Where are you? Are you hurt? Where’s D’Artagnan?”_ Porthos says in a rush and Athos and d’Artagnan are so happy to hear his voice they both huff out a laugh.

“In the south stairwell, on the fourth floor landing, with d’Artagnan,” Athos replies immediately. He’s noticed that now that the adrenaline has worn off and the tablets have yet to kick in that he’s in a lot more pain than he had been when he’d first opened his eyes and he tries to keep his voice steady, mostly for d’Artagnan’s sake.

 _“How bad are you hurt!”_ Porthos demands.

“My leg is a write off but it was pretty much shite before anyway so no big deal. The lad has managed to get something stuck in him though, he says ‘it’s not as bad as it looks’,” Athos tells him drily, trying to diffuse the panic. “But we need help brother, asap,” he confesses.

_“Don’t worry, you’ll be outta there in no time, just stay calm, a’right?”_

“The fire…is the fire out?” Athos asks, more afraid of smoke inhalation than anything else at that moment.

_“Mostly and the minute we get the all clear we’ll be coming in from the roof, can’t get to you from below, the lads ‘ave already tried, it’ll take too long to clear the mess, they’ll come down from up top.”_

Athos takes a deep breath and asks the dreaded question. “Any fatalities, brother?”

Porthos hesitates and he hears him sigh. _“Probably the bomb squad crew, we can’t be sure, everyone else got out.”_

Athos feels sick to his stomach at the loss of life but he knows he must stay focused. “Listen, I’ve only got around 40% battery life, ring when you’re coming in.”

 _“Roger that…and Athos? Just…just keep yourselves…what I mean is be patient,”_ Porthos tells him but Athos knows he’d really wanted to say something more along the lines of ‘stay alive’ or ‘please don’t die’ because after so many years words between them are barely necessary.

“Of course.” Athos closes the phone and slides it into the pocket of his trousers to keep it safe.

“Cavalry is on the way,” he says to d’Artagnan. The lad doesn’t reply and he stiffens and reaches over for the torch and shines it on his face. His eyes are open but his expression screams that he’s in pain, despite the fact that not a sound comes out of his mouth.

“D’Artagnan, I’m going to move a bit closer to you, so I can clean up your face a bit,” Athos lies. He wants to be nearer to him so he can monitor his pulse and his breathing, even though there is nothing he can actually do with that information aside from reassure himself that the boy is alright. As for himself, the pain killers have done very little to numb the agony of his wrecked leg but at least it doesn’t appear as if he’s bleeding through the bandages…yet.

“Ok,” d’Artagnan whispers.

Athos drags and pushes himself as close as he can and then he fumbles with the sealed packet of the antibacterial wipe and he uses his right hand to reach over and clean some of the grime and the dirt away for the lad’s face. He needs another two before he gets all the dust and blood cleaned away and when he’s done he feels exhausted.

“Anything else I need to know about?” Athos asks tentatively and he turns off the torch.

“Aside from this thing stuck in my belly? Nothing else…pressing,” he replies and he tries to chuckle but it comes out like a groan. “How the fuck did this thing…find the one exposed part of…my torso?”

“I’m guessing you were hit by more flying debris than just that one piece of rebar if you think you’ve got broken ribs, everything else probably bounced off your body armour and your vest, are you sure your arms and legs have no breaks lad? I’m not in much of a position to move around and check.

“No, I can move everything…just cut up and bruised, I’d know a break. Fuck, Athos, text Porthos…tell him to make sure Constance does not…find out I’m in ‘ere!”

Athos sighs. “No need, child, he knows that Constance is close to her due date, he’ll keep it all quiet until you can speak to her yourself. And besides, you said Aramis is with her, she’ll be fine I promise.”

“She’s gonna kill me,” he moans and Athos can’t help it, he chuckles. 

‘She won’t, you were doing your job, it’s dangerous sometimes saving lives,” Athos says drily. “She’ll yell at you for one minute and then she’ll just be happy that you’re alright.”

“Hmmnn, not sure ‘bout that, brother,” d’Artagnan replies quietly. “I’m not really feeling very…alright.”

D’Artagnan admitting that he’s not well sets off warning bells in Athos’ brains. “Child, do not fuck with me,” Athos hisses furiously. “You’re fine, this is nothing, you’ve had worse,” he adds shakily. “I may lose my leg but I’m not losing my calm, I suggest you follow my example.”

“I’m sorry, Athos, I didn’t think…” d’Artagnan apologises. “I’m sure they’ll be able to fix it…”

“Child, I really don’t care at the moment, I only care that we both stay alive, the rest is semantics.”

“You’ve been hiding the pain from me…I thought you were…angry about the restricted mobility…but you were hiding physical not emotional pain,” d’Artagnan states flatly and yes, the lad has hit the nail directly on the head. Athos couldn’t care less about being out of the field or unable to play footie in the park, he cares that he’s in constant pain and that is what is slowly eating away at his soul. Oh, there’s pain medication and sometimes he does take a few over-the-counter ones when it’s very, very bad, but he’s terrified of the strong prescription-only drugs that are highly addictive and mess with his head. And there’s also his personal history with alcohol and Oxycontin and he’d vowed long ago never to go down that road again. What he does for the MoD at The Agency is too delicate for him to not have a clear head at all times, lives are at stake, agents and innocents. Recently though, the pain has been affecting his performance and he’s had to consider some very difficult choices.

“I admit that I haven’t been completely honest,” Athos says slowly. 

“And?”

Athos lets out a breath. “And I’ve discussed everything from more surgery…to voluntary amputation with my doctor.”

D’Artagnan gasps, and that morphs into a cough and Athos freezes but he doesn’t panic, he just waits and when it stops, d’Artagnan turns and spits something out onto the floor. Athos doesn’t need to turn on the torch to know it’s blood.

“Child, are you…aright?” he asks uselessly.

“I’m fine….look, Athos, please, don’t make any rash decisions,” d'Artagnan urges, insisting on continuing their conversation.

“I won’t, but frankly, after today, I may not have a choice,” he says wincing as he shifts slightly to move a piece of concrete from under his ass.

“Don’t, please…don’t talk like that…”

Athos is considering his reply when their conversation is once again cut off by the ringing of his phone.

It's Aramis… _oh fuck_ ….!

 

**************************************************

 

So far he’s gotten no answer from Porthos and now Athos isn’t answering either! The one time he tried to call d’Artagnan it had gone straight to voicemail and he’s actually glad he hadn’t answered, Aramis doubts he’d be able to lie to the lad.

He’d seen a special news bulletin about an explosion at Whitehall when he’d turned on his mobile data but before he could get a chance to find out what building, or if it was a car or a truck, if there were any casualties, Constance had become suspicious and he’s quickly shut the phone. He knows d’Artagnan was headed to Whitehall, he knows Athos works there, he assumes Porthos had gone there but since no one is answering that is the sum total of his information. He wonders if Reina knows anything more, there may be casualties but he can’t call her, Constance is starting to become very jittery and Aramis himself very frightened.

“So according to my doctor I’ll just know when it’s time? What kind of bollocks is that?” Constance repeats for the tenth time.

“My darling like every other woman who’s ever given birth I’m sure you will know when it’s the moment. And I’ve called about the ambulance again, they said they were doing their best, please, don’t panic,” Aramis soothes. They’ve moved from the lounge to the bedroom because Constance wanted to lie down properly and now she’s curled up on her side with Aramis sitting on the bed beside her, pretty much shit scared. 

“Talk to me, distract me,” Constance says, sounding so un-Constance like that it’s jarring.

“Ok, how about this; I remember when Marie was born, it was when Athos and I had first met Porthos, before the pair of you joined us,” Aramis tells her, remembering that day fondly. “Porthos was over the moon, the happiest man alive, Ellie, not so much, she’d had a very long labor, was out of it for hours. Porthos got to hold her first, Ellie was pretty ticked off about that, it was silly but she’d carried her, given birth to her but was too weak to hold her after she was born so they gave her to Porthos.” Aramis chuckles as he remembers the first time he’d seen Porthos holding Marie in his massive arms; he and Athos had gone round to the hospital a few hours after Ellie’d given birth and they’d found Porthos, in the nursery in a blue gown, holding a tiny little thing with a patch of blond hair that Aramis couldn’t actually say was very cute, since she was kind of wrinkled and red and her face was all scrunched up from crying but Porthos was looking at her like she was the sun and the moon and Aramis knew, as he watched through the smudged glass, that their new friend and colleague was going to be a wonderful father.

“And then they spent the next 3 or so years or so apart,” Constance grouses. “So stubborn, the pair of them.”

“Yes well that’s water under the bridge, once Porthos decided to leave Team 3 he’d come clean about his work for the government. He was finally able to tell Ellie why he would disappear for days at a time for ‘work’ and come home with a new scar or with that haunted look like he’d just returned from a combat zone. When d’Artagnan was ill in the ICU…after Marcheaux…Porthos stayed with her and Marie here in London and that was when he decided to call it quits with the Agency and tell her everything…well as much as Treville told him he could share that is.”

“Yes, I know all that, I hope he’s thanked d’Artagnan properly for getting shot and going septic then,” Constance snarks and Aramis snorts out a laugh. Thank goodness she hasn’t lost her sense of humour, he thinks.

“Yes, your boy is good for something once in a while.”

“I wonder if he still thinks about that time…when I left him there, you know… _dying_ , and went back to Guildford and pretended that I didn’t love him, that I wasn’t dying myself inside,” she says with a sniff.

“Constance no! And you shouldn’t be thinking of that or crying...or…or be sad, it’s over, it’s done, and baby bunny is almost here, you don’t want his first glimpse of you to be with red and swollen eyes and a runny nose?” Aramis teases. Fuck, fuck, fuck, where is d’Artagnan anyway? This is hard enough, just the two of them and no medical professional – Aramis himself does NOT count, this isn’t a sucking chest wound - that he can deal with - but bringing a baby into this world? Never even crossed his mind and frankly he doesn’t even remember reading that fucking chapter during his course!

Constance sighs and sniffs and then she groans loudly. “Help me up, I need to walk.”

Aramis jumps to his feet and gently helps her off the bed. He sits back down on the foot of the bed while she paces.  
“Tell me something else, another story, something that won’t make me cry.”

Aramis considers her request. “Hmn, let’s see. Well, when I first met your boy I was not a fan.”

“Yes, we knew, you were not subtle, Athos either, but he at least took him under his wing, regardless.”

Aramis grins. “Well he was a snotty little upstart, who could hack into the White House and effectively outsmart the Taliban, probably both at the same time, maybe I was a little jealous?”

“No way, mate, you were a decorated soldier who spoke a dozen languages and was – is – quite hot, I don’t believe you were jealous of d’Artagnan.”

Aramis has the decency to look sheepish. “My turn to tell you a secret. It had nothing to do with him; yeah, he was reckless and he thought he knew everything but I could see that under all that bullshit and bravado that he was a damn good soldier, a genius hacker and a decent bloke.”

“Well then?”

Aramis sighs. “It was you, my love, I had a teensy-tiny crush on you. There, now I’ve said it.”

“You’re takin’ the piss, right?” she asks, and she stops and stares at him like he’s gone mad.

“No, I’m not,” Aramis says defensively. “You um, you dazzled me! Beautiful, brave, oh and you _slapped_ me after what? Knowing me for a week? I thought I was in love, truly,” he says wryly. 

“I slapped you for checking out some girl's arse while we were on surveillance!”

“Yeah, and it was very hot,” Aramis informs her. “The slap I mean, not that girl’s arse! But then we became mates you and I, confidantes, and I realised that it was just a crush and that I loved you like a sister…still do…always will,” he explains sincerely. 

“I swear to you I never knew,” Constance replies and she resumes her pacing, both hands underneath her belly, her face scrunched up in pain.

“Yes, well, I think d’Artagnan guessed, and that’s when I realised that you two either had a thing or at least wanted to have a thing and I was careful to hide my feelings after that. I think that’s why he and I took a bit longer to bond. But when we did it was for real, and unbreakable and it’s never come between us and never will.”

“Yeah, I know, he loves you…a lot. He’s very close to Athos because ‘e’d mentored him when we first joined the team and Porthos has always been his mad partner in crime but when 'e’s hurting or down, it’s you he turns to…always you,” Constance tells him and Aramis feels his heart clench as he absorbs her words. He remembers back to that winter when d’Artagnan had first joined Counter-terrorism, when Aramis and Constance had been shot in a sting-gone-wrong, the way the lad had hovered and practically clung to him afterwards when he’d been recovering. It’d been surprising to say the least but he understood it, truly, it was the first time that Aramis had been so close to death and it’d sacred the shit out of d’Artagnan and their relationship had solidified even further after that.

“When you were…missing, and he thought you were dead, I too walked away from him, you know all of this already but you’re not the only one who’s sometimes overwhelmed by d’Artagnan. Sometimes it’s just too much, too much worry, other times too much anger, mostly too much love, he affects people like that, I tried to explain it to Athos when I’d come back from Cyprus but he thought I was talking about witchcraft, Athos and emotions do not always see eye to eye.”

“Witchcraft? I won’t touch that one with a ten foot pole, mate,” Constance giggles. 

“Regardless though, I love him dearly, warts ‘n all, he’s the little brother I never wanted and the teammate I am damn glad always had my back. But let’s not share any of this conversation with him, yeah?”

“I never do…that is, tell him what we discuss, he may be my partner but you’re my brother and siblings can have their secrets too.”

“Good, that’s good, because it’s the same for me, luv, your secrets are as safe as the Crown Jewels, I promise.”

“Aramis?” she gasps suddenly. 

He jumps to his feet at once and gently grabs her elbow. “Tell me, darling.”

“Remember…when you said I’d know…when it’s time?” she says, stuttering.

FUCK! “Already?” he squeaks.

“Soon, very, very soon,” she moans.

To be continued….


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much writing time with my offspring home from Uni, sorry for the delay! Heartfelt thanks to Arduna for the beta and even more importantly I need to thank her dearly for the encouragement:)

The snow has stopped but the icy cold has turned the roads into death traps, causing evacuation delays and hampering the rescue operation as the necessary equipment is arriving at a snail’s pace. 

Buses literally inch their way towards the MoD where Government employees from every building from the Cenotaph to Trafalgar Square are huddled under hastily erected marquees waiting to be evacuated from the area and taken to a nearby arena where they will wait it out with food and blankets until the tube, trains and regular buses start running again and they can make their way home. Porthos will be glad to have all the civilians out of their way while they deal with their rescue plans, which are looking more complicated by the minute.

“We can’t go up from the reception area, there’s too much damage to the building around the second and third floors of the stairwell and it would take hours to clear the debris, we’ve got to go in from the roof and down. Aside from your two men we have the four bomb disposal officers unaccounted for as well and since we have no idea of their status we need to take the quickest route in which is from up top.” All of this is being explained carefully by the commander of Fire and Rescue, a middle-aged ex-bomb squad expert named Richards. Porthos, Sylvie, Treville, Lemay and Jane listen intently and he outlines his plan. 

“The problem is that the fire door on the roof has been sealed shut due to a malfunction, ironically triggered by the fire itself. Since it’s also a high-security door due to the nature of the offices housed in the building it’s almost as thick as a bank vault. We need to cut through it and go down with rescue baskets as both of your men are seriously injured. Once all of that is achieved the only way to transport them will be by helicopter. I’ve got structural engineers assessing the damage before we can authorise a landing on the roof while we’re waiting for air traffic control to give the ok for a medevac takeoff.”

“That all sounds like it will take hours!” Porthos practically roars, frustrated. “Can’t we take them down with a crane or something like that?”

“Listen mate, you’ve just told me that your unit commander has been impaled in the stomach with a foreign object, if we try to take him down the side of the building we may kill him! Besides, getting a crane here tall enough to bring them down will take just as long as a medevac with this bloody weather. This is the most logical solution, everyone is already in place and doing their bit. There’s a team on the roof cutting through the door and I’ve got specialist paramedics with baskets on the way to move in with my men and yours the second the door is open.”

“Thank you Commander Richards,” Sylvie says tightly and Porthos knows that like him, she’s barely holding it together. She and Athos have become very close in the months they’ve been involved and although he’s not fully aware of depth of their feeling for each other since they are both very private, it’s safe to say that she’s become more than a little attached to his friend. And he knows she’s worried about D’Artagnan of course as well; Sylvie has easily fit into their little family and they’ve all grown close personally, but professionally she often praises him as the ‘best damn Commander any SO25 unit has ever had’, and the fact that he’s been injured in the line of duty is certainly weighing on her even more.

Beetle comes out of the still-smoking building carrying something and Porthos notes he’s clutching it tightly to his chest, as if he’s carrying something valuable. It’s just a standard-issue black rucksack but when Beetle hands it to Porthos he instinctively knows who it belong to.

“He left it at reception, it’s got the rest of his gear, he’d be pretty pissed-off if it goes missing and he’s charged for a whole new kit,” Beetle says dully, and it’s clear that d’Artagnan’s teammate is struggling as well to keep himself in check. Porthos nods and hands the bag to Jane who assures him she’ll keep it safe.

“Porthos, can we try to contact Athos again, check on their status and let them know what’s happening?” Sylvie asks.

“He texted me, a few minutes after we spoke, to let me know that the lad is in a bad way, didn’t wanna say it with ‘im listening I reckon,” Porthos explains tersely. “He also told me not to speak to Aramis since he’s with Constance but that seems wrong to me, keepin’ them in the dark.”

“No, I agree, let’s not say anything just yet, we don’t want to send Constance into a panic, and I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Sylvie is saying distractedly. “I’ll text Athos myself, explain and get an update on their situation, you lot see if there’s any more information about our suspects. I’ve got every employee who was on the roster over the past week in custody as well and all of management, someone contact Team 5 and see how the interrogations are moving along.”

“I’ll do that, and I’ll get Serge to try and get over to Counter-terrorism and see for himself what’s happening, that’s if he can get there in this bloody mess,” Treville grumbles and he moves to the back of the tent to make his call. Sylvie is texting and he knows from the sound of the alerts that she’s receiving replies as well, and Porthos is desperate to know what’s happening.

“It’s like he told you, his leg is crushed and d’Artagnan is barely hanging on to consciousness, he told Athos he tastes blood in his throat so he definitely has internal bleeding,” she explains shakily, and she sinks onto a folding chair.

“I’m going in too,” Porthos says decisively. “They’ll need all the help they can get and I want to be there…when they’re rescued, I’ve got to be there…” he’s saying, more to himself that anyone else. 

“Absolutely not, you’ll be in the way and I need you here in case we have any developments with the suspects!”

“With all due respect, Boss, I’ll go over your head if I ‘ave to,” Porthos growls, indicating Treville, who’s still on the phone. “I’m goin’ in and you can’t stop me.”

Sylvie stares at him, outraged and Porthos thinks the next words out of her mouth will be ‘you’re fired’ but surprisingly they’re not. Her shoulders sag slightly and she loses her expression of fury quite quickly and it’s replaced by fear. Of course she’s afraid, she may be a strong willed and uber-professional but she’s still a human being and a woman he suspects is quite deeply in love.

“Your insubordination will be noted my friend, but I won’t stop you from taking part in the rescue,” she tells him wearily. 

Porthos also lets his anger taper off and he sits down beside her. 

“There was this case once, years ago, we were in some town in Devon investigating drug smuggling and our car was rigged, the bomb went off as we approached it, the oldest son of the family we were interviewing ‘ad done it while the Mum served us tea and biscuits. Athos ‘ad seen the blinking red light and warned me but it was too late, I was already too close so I was injured, practically tossed across a field and rolled down a cliff edge onto some rocks by the blast. Athos spent hours lookin’ for me in the dark, I was unconscious and I couldn’t call out. The family did a runner but the neighbors called the local police. They kept tryin’ to get Athos to give up ‘till morning but ‘e wouldn’t. It was raining, fuckin’ pouring really, and you could barely see anything, and ‘e was alone, the others were back in the town doin’ surveillance on the Dad so until they got there it was only Athos and he just kept at it, calling out and looking for me…he was drenched and using his phone as a torch, and according to one of the local coppers he kept telling ‘em to ‘fuck off’, that he wasn’t leaving until ‘e found me, dead or alive, he wasn’t leaving me out there in the rain.”

“And?”

Porthos gives her a crooked grin. “He found me, the stubborn sod, but there weren’t anything he could do until d’Artagnan, Aramis and Constance arrived with the Fire Brigade. But ‘e stayed out there, in the freezing rain, just making sure I was still on that rock ledge and hopefully alive. You never forget something like that.”

Sylvie looks floored by Porthos’ story and she blinks a tear away before scrubbing at her eyes and clearing her throat. “So now you want to be the one to find him, dead or alive you don’t want him left in that building.”

“He won’t be dead, the boy neither, no one’s dying today, but yes, I want to be the one to find ‘em, it’s only right that it’s one of us there when they find them,” Porthos says firmly. “I uh, I kinda owe the lad an apology too, I’ve been pretty ‘ard on him since ‘e’s been back in the field, to keep him focused and all that…” he adds lamely but he’s sure that Sylvie understands. His boss knows that the whole bloody mess with Rochefort had left them all shaken and most of them physically injured as well. Aramis may have made a full recovery but shooting d’Artagnan had given him nightmares for ages and Athos of course will never regain the full use of his leg. As for Porthos, well he still hasn’t let go of the fact that d’Artagnan had offered to trade himself to the Russians to save the rest of them and he’s made sure to let d’Artagnan knows just how pissed off he still is, even all these months later. The boy is like a magnet for trouble and with Constance expecting Porthos has been like a drill sergeant with him, doing everything in his power to make sure he follows protocol to a T in every aspect of his job.

Treville interrupts them with news from Counter-terrorism headquarters. “So it seems that Team 5 has narrowed it down to three suspects, a woman and two men, all recent hires, all working the specific shifts that the cctv tapes show the devices being planted in the various buildings. It’s hard to actually tell from the video who is who due to their identical uniforms and caps and grainy quality of the video but they’re quite sure they’ve got their suspects.”

“And who are they and what is their affiliation?” Sylvie asks at once.

“Recent converts to Islam, white British citizens in their mid-twenties, two are siblings the other one is their cousin. They’d been reported to the police by their Imam and by other members of their Mosque for anti-social behaviour and attempting to radicalise youths in poor areas of London.”

“And why the fuck did this not end up on my desk?” Sylvie roars. “Every possible terrorist threat must come to me even if it’s first reported to another agency! Who took the complaints?”

“Some imbecile I would assume since the report was dumped on the desk of his DCI who only actually saw it two days ago when he reported it to MI5. They claim they intended to pass it on to you,” Treville says, clearly frustrated. “MI5 also have an interesting theory though and Team 5 seems to agree that it’s plausible; they think that these three are actually right-wing nationalists who only pretended to convert in order to implicate Muslims in the attacks, a conspiracy within a conspiracy if you will.”

“That’s mad, completely ‘effin bonkers!” Porthos growls. “So what, kill innocent people to implicate other innocent people to serve their racist and nationalist agenda?”

Treville nods and he shivers, closing the top button of his overcoat. “Something like that, yes. Team 5 is more than capable, let’s leave it to them for the moment and concentrate on getting our people out as soon as possible.”

Jane approaches tentatively and she looks at Porthos. “Boss, the lads say if you’re going with them it’s now or never. Also Ryder said to let you know that you’ll have to climb the rope for the last story, the ladders only reach the fifth floor.”

“Tell Ryder I’m coming and I’ll go up the rope all six stories if I ‘ave to! Jane, make sure you keep on top of comms and assist the Boss with anything she needs, yeah?”

“Roger that sir,” she replies firmly and Porthos checks his uniform pockets to make sure he has everything he needs. 

He hands her his weapons reminding her how important it is to keep them secure and when he turns to go she grabs his arm.

“Stay safe, Boss, I know they’re your friends but you’ve got a little girl at home.”

Porthos feels momentarily shaken as he thinks of Ellie and Marie who have no idea what’s going on. 

“Can you find Ben and have him call Ellie for me?” he asks, referring to his personal assistant who is back at headquarters. “Tell him not to mention anything beyond the fact that we’re tied up at Whitehall in a situation but nothing about the lads bein’ trapped, alright? Ellie’ll flip and I can’t worry about ‘er as well right now.”

Jane nods. “Of course, now go, I’ll hold down the fort until you come back.”  
Porthos heads over to meet up with Ryder, feeling a tiny bit lighter, confident that this capable young woman can truly take care of everything in his place.

 

****************

 

D’Artagnan has no idea how much time has passed since he’d left his flat and his very pregnant partner safe in their bed but it seems like days have passed and not mere hours.

“Lad, we need to move you away from there, you’re leaning on a piece of concrete that could slip at any second.”

D’Artagnan wants to ask Athos if he’s gone mental but he knows his friend has a point; if it slips he will fall down to the next step at the very least, and at the very worst probably end up killing himself if the rebar impaling him moves around his insides. On the other hand he can’t see how they can move him safely away from it either.

“Alright what do…you propose?” Every word he speaks is torture, and leaves him feeling breathless and lightheaded.

“It’s just a few inches, can you try to slide towards me?” Athos asks tentatively.

“I don’t know,” d’Artagnan replies honestly. 

“Alright, don’t move, I have an idea.”

D’Artagnan really had no intention of moving at the moment since he’s suddenly feeling very tired. If he could just close his eyes for a minute…

“This is not nap time, child!” Athos barks and d’Artagnan is startled to hear Athos’ voice much closer to his prone body. 

“If you can move just a few inches lad you can lean against me, come on, I’m sure you can manage,” he says encouragingly.

“I could…if I wasn’t skewered like a fuckin’ kebab,” d’Artagnan huffs petulantly, lids drooping.

“D’Artagnan focus!” Athos hisses, jolting him awake.

D’Artagnan needs a minute to think about how he can move without jarring the rebar or dislodging the misshapen piece of concrete on the top step. Athos of course is right, he urgently needs to move away from steps, anything could happen, including another explosion if the fire is still burning; the vibration would surely shake all the rubble in the stairwell.

“Ok but first I need to…unzip my vest…it might push down…on the rebar…and move it.”

“Do you need help?” Athos asks.

“No…I don’t think so,” d’Artagnan replies and with shaking hands he slowly unzips his vest until it falls open. Underneath is his Kevlar but it’s fitted tight and probably won’t move around. Besides, there is no possible way he can wiggle out of it without injuring himself further so it has to stay.

He puts his hands on either side of him on the landing, bits of debris cutting into his palms but the only way to do this is to put all his weight on his hands and keep his torso as steady as possible. On the first attempt he manages to move a few inches but when he’s done d’Artagnan is panting and he tastes blood in his mouth and he needs to stop, catch his breath and spit before he can try to move the last few inches.

Athos, obviously aware of his distress commands him not to move again. Instead the older man manages to drag himself a little closer and he tells him to simply fall against his right side which d’Artagnan does gratefully. He’s still beside the concrete block but since he’s leaning on Athos he won’t fall if it slips.

D’Artagnan hears a hiss and a groan and he realises that his left leg is too close to Athos’ mangled right thigh but there’s not much he can do about it at the moment. 

“Sorry brother,” d’Artagnan whispers, his breathing coming in harsh pants, and that’s it, he’s not moving another inch, even of the entire building starts falling on them, he’s simply can’t.

His overloaded senses are all ringing warning bells in his head; he smells smoke, acrid and toxic and he sees dangerously dangling bits of concrete, wood, metal and glass all around them. His entire body is throbbing in pain from bruises, cuts, fractures and of course the foot-long piece of mangled rebar in his belly; d’Artagnan is not usually squeamish but it’s certainly one of the most horrific things he’s ever seen and it’s stuck in his own body and not in someone else’s.

“Don’t close your eyes,” Athos warns and instantly his head pops up and that brings a groan of pain that he doesn’t even try and mask.

“OK,” he replies automatically. He rarely, if ever, has ignored a command from Athos, and the Pavlovian response is too deeply embedded in him to do so now.

“That’s better. Now tell me what hurts most and how serious your injuries are.”

“Are you…takin’ the piss?” d’Artagnan asks, startled.

“No, I’m not, I need you to catalogue your injuries so that I can relay the information to Sylvie; this way when they get to us the paramedics will be ready for you,” Athos counters sternly.

“Right then…legs are bruised and cut up, no breaks…same for my arms. I think I’ve got…either cracked or broken ribs on my right side…and my back hurts like I was…slammed against the wall.”

Athos is texting furiously and d’Artagnan tries to take some deep breaths to see if he can determine if he has a punctured lung, but it hurts too much so he sticks to short and shallow ones instead.

“And do you still taste blood?”

“Yes, more now that I’ve moved around,” d’Artagnan admits. 

“Hmn, what about your head, any injuries you can feel?” Athos persists.

“I um, I don’t think so…but maybe because I was…knocked out.”

Athos puts the phone aside and turns on the torch, presumably to get a better look at d’Artagnan now that’s he’s moved closer.

“Would you be more comfortable if we could get you lying down?” Athos asks tentatively.

D’Artagnan considers it. “Probably best…not to move again, I have no idea…what this thing is poking at,” he decides. “Am I hurting you?”

“No child, I just want you to be ok,” Athos assures him, and he turns off the torch as sets it aside.

D’Artagnan huffs out a breathless chuckle. “To be ok…I need to be home…with Constance…who is going to freak…when she finds out.”

“No she won’t, and you’ll be fine you’ve had worse.” He says it with such confidence that d’Artagnan desperately wants to believe it. Although his brother is right d’Artagnan can barely remember anything else aside from what he’s feeling at the moment and for some reason this seems…different… and he’s not ashamed to admit he’s scared. Maybe it’s because he and Constance are finally on the same page after their fair share of ups and downs and of course they have a child on the way. D’Artagnan is actually worried that he may not survive this injury, especially if the rescue team takes too long to reach them. Thought of leaving a pregnant Constance to raise their child on her own is just about the only thing keeping him tethered at the moment.

“You should never have come back to look for me,” Athos says hoarsely and d’Artagnan startles, he’d become lost in his thoughts and Athos’ voice jolts him, causing a spike of pain and he can’t hold back a groan.

“You’re an idiot…any one of us…would walk through fire…for another, how could I leave you?” d’Artagnan ask, shocked.

“Because you need to start thinking like a father and a husband and be more careful!” Athos snaps, clearly angry with him. 

“First off…we haven’t had a chance…to get married yet…and second I had a job to do…to evacuate the building…including you…father or not unless I quit…this is my job.” That was far too many words and he feels winded and drowsy and he has to fight to keep his eyes open or brave Athos’ growing wrath.

“Yes, that is your job and you should have stuck to getting all the civilians and yourself out safely and not been stupid and come looking for me, it wasn’t worth the risk, you shouldn’t have…”

D’Artagnan doesn’t let him finish. “So you’re saying…that you aren’t worth the risk?” he gasps, horrified at the thought. “Have you gone mad?”

Athos snorts out a bitter laugh. “Going mad would have probably been preferable to my current situation.”

“You’re scaring me brother,” d’Artagnan counters. “Surely it can’t be…that bad…”

Athos lets out a long breath. “And yet it is, d’Artagnan, it really is.”

D’Artagnan is so overwhelmed by his friend’s words and the meaning behind them that he’s momentarily distracted from the growing pain. But the fact of the matter is that with every second that passes the adrenaline and the shock are wearing off and every bump and bruise seems desperate to let itself be known along side of his major problem, which has turned from a burning sensation to a throbbing agony. But the idea that Athos has been suffering silently all this time makes everything seem so much worse. What kind of a friend is he that he hadn’t picked up on the scope of his brother’s suffering? Had he been so selfish and wrapped up in Constance’s pregnancy that he hadn’t seen the signs? It makes him feel like a complete wanker, especially since Athos has always had his back, even when he’d been a cocky little shit Athos had always been there, guiding him firmly, never giving up on him no matter how reckless he’d been.

“You’re making sounds that are frightening me, lad, what’s happening?” Athos questions, his tone even but clearly worried.

D’Artagnan hadn’t even realized that he’d been making small gasping noises that now, when brought to his attention, seem exaggerated and loud to his ears. “I, um, I don’t…know…can’t seem…to take…a breath,” he manages to whisper. This is bad, he acknowledges, this is very bad.

“OK, don’t talk for a bit, alright child? Just rest your head here on my shoulder…but don’t fall asleep, we can’t have you nodding off and being lazy when Porthos will be here any minute.”

Athos is trying so hard to keep his tone light that d’Artagnan finds his platitudes almost painful to listen to. He really wants to sleep, just rest his eyes and his battered body for a bit but he knows that will upset Athos and d’Artagnan won’t do that, he can’t do that, not to Athos.

He knows Athos is texting again because he feels the older man’s body moving slightly as he taps the screen and he hears the subtle vibrating sounds that his phone makes as he types. Probably Porthos again, maybe hoping he can urge their friend to get to them quicker although d’Artagnan knows that his boss and brother would have lifted the concrete and steel himself by now if it was that simple. No, for them to be taking this long it’s more complicated, something is definitely keeping them from just dropping in from the roof, which d’Artagnan knows would be the best option. And whatever is holding them up could just be the reason that he…and possibly Athos…won’t make it out of the building alive. It’s a morbid thought and he knows he’s meant to stay positive but there is absolutely nothing about the situation that makes him feel confident. Athos could lose his leg and if he doesn’t he might lose even more mobility and suffer from greater pain than he’s been trying to hide, while d’Artagnan hasn’t the faintest clue what’s happening to his insides, he could have damage to one organ or to multiple organs, maybe a punctured lung again, or all of the above. He simply has no idea. 

The only thing that he does know for sure though is that time is definitely running out for them.

 

To be continued…..


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of hugs and thanks to Arduna for cleaning this up, errors are mine because I always tinker after she sends it back to me ;) Also I can't thank you all enough for sticking with me through alllll these self-indulgent stories, I truly appreciate it. I have a secret; I've written ONE FINAL story in the 'verse, and this time it's final because that's it, I've flogged this 'verse like a dead horse! But the story is complete so when this one is done that one will be posted quite regularly. I've also started writing another story in the canon-era verse but that won't be ready for posting for a while, stay tuned:)

“You know I shot your boy just a few months ago and now I’m going to deliver his child, it’s kind of bizarre innit?” 

Aramis states this as he’s taking the duvet and the sheets off Constance and d’Artagnan’s bed, neatly folding them and putting them on the carpeted floor in the corner. Constance had demanded he clear her expensive bedding and leave just the waterproof mattress cover, as there was no way she was replacing hundreds of pounds of bedding just because her baby decided to appear a little early.

“Our lives are bizarre full stop, Aramis,” Constance complains, pacing back and forth as Aramis prepares her bed as she’s directed. There’s still no word on the ambulance, no answer from d’Artagnan or Porthos and it’s looking more and more as if this really will be a home birth with just the two of them. Constance is rarely frightened, well at least not anymore after years of working for the government as a covert operative, but today she’s shit scared, and also angry and disappointed that nothing is going to plan and that d’Artagnan is AWOL without even a text to check up on her, something that is not like him at all.

“I hope either you or Athos has your guest room ready because that’s where d’Artagnan is sleeping tonight,” Constance grouses. “I can’t believe he hasn’t even checked up on me!”

Aramis falters slightly and Constance notices. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me and then you’ll be the one in the dog house mate!”

“No my love, just trying to remember if the sheets are clean on my guest bed,” Aramis replies smoothly but Constance is not convinced. 

“Aramis, if something’s happened, if he and Porthos or Athos are in some kind of trouble or danger you’ve got to tell me!” she demands, but then a sharp contraction leaves her gasping and Aramis is at her side, leading her to the armchair beside the balcony door.

“Calm down my darling girl, nothing is going on, they’re just probably overwhelmed with the chaos this blasted weather’s brought on,” he soothes. Constance desperately wants to believe him but there’s something nagging at her about his demeanour. There’s really not much time to dwell on it though because another contraction leaves her breathless.

When it passes Aramis hurries to finish fixing the bed; he adds two large, fluffy bath sheets and a stack of pillows for her to lean against and then she instructs him to find a swaddling blanket and towel from the nursery to have on hand for the baby.

“This is really happening,” she muses, awed and frightened and very glad that Aramis is with her. If it had to be anyone of them Aramis is certainly the best candidate, even over d’Artagnan, who would have lost his cool from the first minute. Not only does she trust him implicitly but this is a moment that is very intimate and private and Constance knows that Aramis, as her dear friend and confidante, is feeling all the same emotional upheaval that she is and his protective side has come through, it makes her feel safe and comforted, even though she has no idea how it will all turn out.

“It’s happening,” he replies with a watery smile and he squeezes her hand. He sits down on the floor in front of her and rests his hand on her knee. “Just say the word when we need to move to the bed.”

Constance nods. “Remember to wash your hands and arms and put on the surgical gloves,” she reminds him since her flat is certainly not as sterile as the hospital.

“Don’t worry but I bet you and I, as well as your pristine bed, are a lot cleaner than a full, noisy hospital,” Aramis replies wryly. 

“Probably,” she agrees. “D’Artagnan ended up going septic in one of the best facilities in the country,” Constance adds, wrinkling her nose as she remembers.

“I know, I was there when it happened and your boy scared the fuck outta me,” Aramis admits with a frown. “He had a seizure while I watched,” Aramis says absently but Constance sees his expression changes at once when he realises he’s probably upsetting her. “But he was fine, of course, same thing happened to me, remember? After I was shot in that dodgy car park double-cross?”

“I remember, d’Artagnan had practically abandoned me to stay with you, even though I’d been shot as well,” she mock complains. “He was so out of sorts it scared me. Was that what he was like when I was gone?” she asks curiously. This is probably not the right time to be discussing this but Constance feels like she truly needs to know. “Athos told me not to ask you or d’Artagnan and I’ve never pushed, but months have passed since then.”

Aramis leans back on both arms, palms downs and his fingers digging into the carpet tensely and his expression goes tight. “Is this really the time, Constance?”

Constance grimaces against another painful contraction and then she nods. “I’m a captive audience, mate, you won’t find a better time to talk to me, trust me.”

Aramis shakes his head slowly. “It was an absolutely horrific time for us…telling you now…like this…who knows what will happen?”

Constance sighs. “I’m ok, Aramis, really and I know the gist of it, Porthos and Ellie and I have already talked about most of it but I want to hear it from you, because I know you’ll fill in the gaps that they were afraid to.”

“Well Porthos was a big weepy mess, felt responsible for it somehow, which was ridiculous,” Aramis begins slowly. “It took him a while to get past that and focus on his family and his job again. And then I…had to go for a while,” he says in a low voice, and he looks away for a minute, his gaze fixed on the grey sky outside the glass doors before he can continue. “Because I was away,” he starts again, clearing his throat, “Porthos had to pull himself together to be there for d’Artagnan as well. Athos and the boy’s mum had shouldered most of the responsibility but Porthos and the lad, they’re partners in crime, and our big friend tried very hard to gently coax him back into the land of the living.”

Constance had insisted this wouldn’t bother her but of course she’d been wrong. Immediately her eyes fill with tears and Aramis gets to his knees a scowl on his face. “And now story time is over, my dear, I knew this would happen!”

Constance protests. “I’m fine, really, I promise,” she says honestly. “It’s in the past and we’re all fine now so it can’t hurt us,” she tells him quietly.

Aramis’ expression is suddenly unreadable and Constance tilts her head to the side and takes a long look at him. “Aramis, for the last time, are you keeping something from me? Are the boys out of contact because something’s happened?” she demands.

“No!” he replies vehemently and sits back down, cross-legged. “Look, can’t we discuss something else, like baby names? Have you decided what you will call him or her?”

She suspects he’s humouring her but she doesn’t really have the will to argue. “Olivia if it’s a girl and Theo, after my Dad, if it’s a boy.”

Aramis smiles and his body relaxes considerably, she notes. “Both wonderful names for our little bunny,” he replies sincerely. Constance and d’Artagnan had been thrilled over the reception that their news had received from their dearest friends, and over the past few months even the stoic Athos had seemed quite excited about the newest addition to their little family, but it was Aramis who was over the moon. He sometimes fussed and worried more than d’Artagnan, something that had caused more than a few awkward moments between the three of them. 

“So which are you hoping for?”Aramis adds.

Constance shakes her head. “You’ve asked me a dozen times! A healthy baby, the anatomy means nothing to either of us.”

“All men want a son,” Aramis teases. 

“And yet I think he may be hoping for a little girl, because of Marie I think, he worships the ground she walks on, truly.”

“Maybe,” Aramis muses. “If it’s a boy he’ll probably be as mischievous as his dad, I’m not sure I can handle another d’Artagnan.”

Constance considers his comment. “So that’s why you went away then? Too much to handle?”

Aramis frowns. “I thought we were talking about baby things.”

“Aramis….”

“Yes, yes, alright, that’s one of the reasons I went away. He was grieving and in so much pain, and I couldn’t get a grip on his emotions and mine at the same time, so I needed to go,” Aramis confesses. “When I found out he’d been taken I came straight home where Porthos made sure to serve me up a healthy helping of guilt. I deserved it but it didn’t change anything, I’d have always made that choice, even if I could have done it over again. I had to watch him practically self-destruct while trying to get over the fact that I’d lost you too and I just couldn’t do it.”

It’s Aramis’ turn for tears and Constance reaches out a hand and Aramis sits up higher and takes it, squeezing tightly. “Well I’m here, mate and I’m not going anywhere, my days of espionage and intrigue are behind me, my first priority is this little one from now on. And d’Artagnan of course who mostly needs a full-time baby sitter as well.”

That makes Aramis chuckle and he swipes at the tears in his face. “He does, but he’s also done a lotta good, Constance, that mad bastard has saved dozens of lives, hopefully this baby will make him a bit more careful from now on though while doing so.”

Aramis’ expression has once again gone odd and Constance feels her stomach do a little flip that has nothing to do with the contractions in her belly. She can’t imagine Aramis ever outright lying to her but she knows for a fact that he might use his wit and charm to avoid telling the truth. She’s about to call bullshit when his mobile rings, startling both of them.

“It’s Reina,” he tells her quickly and he answers at once.

The conversation takes all of one minute, in which Aramis mostly just said ‘yes’ and ‘uh huh’ but when he shuts the phone he’s grinning.

“She’s on her way! She’s commandeered an ambulance, you won’t be able to go to your own hospital but it doesn’t matter because you’ll be in excellent hands!”

Constance feels such a huge wave of relief wash over her it leaves her dizzy, just at the same moment that she feels a particularly strong contraction. At once she lets out a load groan and feels her body sliding sideways.

“Constance!” Aramis practically bellows in her ear and her terrified friend is gripping her tightly by the shoulders, his dark eyes wild with fear. Constance blinks slowly and tries to focus on his face, using that as focal point to ground herself and calm her pounding heart.

“I’m ok,” she whispers after a few moments but Aramis still looks horrified. “Help me to the bed, I need to lie down a bit.” 

Aramis helps her to her feet and takes all of her weight to cross the small gap to the bed. He sets her on the bed on top of the bath sheets and quickly arranges the pillows so that she can lie back and relax but also be in the right position if Reina doesn’t get there in time. After a few more moments of practising the breathing techniques she’s been taught Constance feels considerably better despite the contractions continuing steadily. 

“You scared the life out of me young lady,” Aramis says sternly and his hands are shaking as he continues to arrange the bed and the baby things.

“You’ve done what…six tours in a war zone?” she teases tiredly. It hasn’t even fully begun and Constance already feels completely knackered. 

“More I think,” Aramis says absently as he pulls the chair closer so he can sit beside her. “Am I supposed to see if you’ve dilated?” he asks, physically squirming as does so.

Constance barks out a weak laugh. “Probably…soon, I’ll let you know when the contractions are coming closer together for you to take a peek.”

Aramis looks terrified at the thought. “Oi, you’re acting as if you’ve never seen a vagina before and I know for a fact you’ve seen hundreds!” she teases.

“Dozens, _yes_ , hundreds, _no_ , but this is _you_ …and it will be in a slightly different context. And I’ve never been present at a birth before, you know that,” he replies, still looking unsteady.

“Aramis, I need you, so can you please forget the fact that it’s _my_ vagina and focus on the fact that my baby is impatient?” she tells him firmly and like a switch has been flipped Aramis suddenly looks a helluva lot more stable . “Now that’s better, thank you.”

“D’Artagnan is going to have a proper fit though when he finds out I’ve seen your…lady parts,” he grumbles but Constance can tell he’s teasing her. 

“We’ve all seen each others parts at one time or another,” Constance replies cheekily. “You know Porthos has the absolute best bum I have ever seen, truly.”

Aramis snorts out a laugh. “Yes, our brother certainly does have a very nice backside. But so does your boy.”

Constance squeaks out a sound of faux outrage. “I hope that doesn’t mean you want a closer look,” she warns teasingly.

“If I was twenty years younger and still experimenting…and you and Reina weren’t in the picture, maybe?”

“You’re winding me up aren’t you,” she grouses.

Aramis grins. “To an extent, yes, but a man would have to be dead not to notice that your husband is very fit.”

“He’s not my husband,” she sighs dramatically but her words are followed by a loud groan of excruciating pain. Aramis is on his feet at once, whispering nonsensical words of comfort as she tries to get her breath back.

“Looks like…you’ll be getting…a peek at my lady parts sooner than you’d thought,” Constance says and if she had the strength she would have roared with laughter at the expression on Aramis’ pale face.

 

*******************************************

 

“I’m sorry I’ve kept my…situation a secret.”

Athos truly has no idea how much time has passed because he hasn’t actually checked, but he thinks he’s probably been talking non-stop for hours. The point is to keep both himself and d’Artagnan from passing out from pain and blood loss and the truth is that neither of them is in good shape. The painkillers that Athos had taken earlier have already worn off, or maybe they’d never done anything to begin with but he’d been too focused on keeping the lad awake that he hadn’t even noticed.

“Hmn,” is the only reply he gets from d’Artagnan who is leaning heavily on Athos’ right side and of course his right leg. Athos desperately wants to move him to make them both more comfortable but he’s terrified of trying; what if he makes things worse, especially for d’Artagnan, who has been slipping in and out of consciousness and now has blood trickling out of the side of his mouth. Athos doesn’t actually know how long he’s been like that since they can barely see anything but he’d switched on the torch to check on him a few minutes earlier and was horrified by the sight of the blood pooling in his beard. From around that time d’Artagnan has been less and less aware and Athos is fucking terrified.

Athos turns on the torch again and shines it in the lad’s face. “D’Artagnan if you don’t open your eyes I’m going to pinch your ears and I know you hate that,” Athos warns and he watches, satisfied, as d’Artagnan pries his eyes open.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, brother…just a few…more minutes?” he slurs and Athos is afraid that he’s not fully aware of what’s going on anymore.

“D’Artagnan, wake up!” Athos practically commands and this time the lad opens his eyes wide.

“What the…bloody _fuck_ Athos?” he grumbles but Athos sees his expression go from shock to pain almost at once and he feels horribly guilty for shouting at him.

“Short breaths, child,” Athos soothes as d’Artagnan struggles to get a grip on the pain. “Just a little bit longer, Sylvie just texted me, they’re just waiting on the helicopter.” 

It’s not a lie, they’re waiting for the engineers to give the ok for the med-evac to land on the roof but they’re also still trying to cut through the blasted door. They’re making progress though and Athos knows that Porthos, Ryder and the rest of the lads are already on the roof and waiting to make their way down the minute the door opens.

“I hate…when you…call me that,” d’Artagnan complains and his words are like music to Athos’ ears since it seems that the boy is now more aware.

“You really don’t though,” Athos says smugly. “I was apologising by the way, when you unceremoniously fainted,” Athos tells his drily. “I um, I’d meant to tell you all about the problems I’d been having, but you know that it’s not really in my nature to…complain.”

“I still can’t...believe you’ve…suffered alone,” d’Artagnan huffs. “Tellin’ your family…that you’re unwell…is not complaining brother.”

“You’re probably right but what’s done is done. And now it’s a moot point because I don’t think it can be saved this time."

“Athos _no_...that won't happen…you’ll be fine.”

D’Artagnan continues to stutter his words, needing to take a break after every few spoken and he’s definitely much weaker, something that Athos himself is also starting to feel. Keeping his brain focused has become more and more difficult. Most of the smoke has cleared and it seems as if the noises that had been filtering in from outside are more muted, it’s now less engines and sirens, replaced by voices shouting orders that he can’t make out and Athos thinks he can hear the crackle of radios and comms but frankly he can’t be sure. It also seems much colder, although that might just have been something that hadn’t bothered him before but now, due to blood loss - not only leaking outwards from his mangled leg but very possibly internally as well - Athos feels chilled and he shivers, accidentally jarring d’Artagnan who lets out a soft groan.

“Athos? I uh…I need to...lie down,” d’Artagnan slurs and before Athos can catch him d’Artagnan practically falls sideways into his lap.

The pain is excruciating, and Athos can’t help it, he cries out. d’Artagnan has fallen sideways with most of his torso across Athos’ injured leg but by some miracle the area of his belly that is impaled by the rebar hasn’t touched Athos’ thigh because that would have moved it around, possibly killing the lad instantly, not to mention what it would have done to Athos’ leg. It takes ages for Athos to get a grip on the pain, steady his breathing and calm his pounding heart before he can even check if d'Artagnan is still breathing. He’s curled up awkwardly, most of his body across Athos’ lap, the metal bar somewhere precariously positioned between d’Artagnan’s knees and Athos’ crushed thigh. He quickly checks for a pulse at his neck and almost sobs at the utter relief he feels when he finds the steady beat.

He puts his hands on d’Artagnan’s face and starts patting at his cheeks lightly, trying to get him to open his eyes, but there’s no response so he resorts to what he’d threatened to do earlier and he pinches d’Artagnan’s earlobe. 

Bad choice though because it causes d’Artagnan to startle and he tries to twist away from Athos’ touch which leaves him lying on his back now with even more weight concentrated on Athos’ injuries. Athos reaches for the torch once again and finds that a considerable about of blood in now covering d’Artagnan’s chin. Sickened by the sight of it marring the lad’s mouth and neat beard he wipes the blood away with his palm and then cleans it off on his own trousers.

“D’Artagnan stay still!” Athos commands. “You’re hurting yourself you foolish boy, now stop moving around!”

D’Artgagnan’s eyes flutter open, slowly, sluggishly and he opens his mouth to speak but all that comes out is more blood. Athos, utterly horrified, sends a one word text to Sylvie that simply says _hurry_ and then wipes away the blood again as best as he can. 

“Listen to me child, we have to be patient for another ten, fifteen minutes tops, please, just stay still until then, alright? Constance is going to have a fit if you make things worse for yourself and that woman’s wrath is something you don’t want to face,” he adds teasingly, but it comes out weak and weary and Athos had to admit that things are truly not looking good for either of them. D’Artagnan’s eyes are open but just barely and his breathing is laboured. His skin has gone clammy which indicates shock, something Athos thinks he’s experiencing as well. But he’s in better shape for certain which means that it’s up to him to do whatever is necessary to keep the pair of them alive.

“Don’t tell…Constance…the baby…” d’Artagnan pants. 

“Constance will be fine, lad, she’s a strong girl, she’ll give you hell for coming after me but she’ll be fine, I promise.”

“No…she loves you…she’ll know I did…the right thing.”

“Whatever you say, child,” Athos replies tiredly. He doesn’t agree but he humours him regardless. Athos is still furious that d’Artagnan had put himself in danger to come looking for him; he has a baby on the way and Athos’ existence has become so dismal that he can’t reconcile the boy making such a monumental sacrifice for him. Athos pushes the damp strands of hair away from d'Artagnan's face and swipes at the blood again, his hand now stained from the amount of blood that he’s tried to wipe away and it simply won’t come off no matter how much he rubs it on his trouser leg. He knows that the stains on his hands will be the subject of many nightmares if he survives this, a literal version of the phrase ‘blood on his hands’ because Athos is sure that he will never stop thinking that his life was not worth saving, not at the expense of the life of someone he loves so dearly.

“Athos…this fuckin’…’urts…”d’Artagnan groans after a few moments. “Can’t you…pull it out?”

“Absolutely not, you will bleed to death in seconds, you know that!” Athos replies angrily. 

D’Artagnan knows full well that removing the rebar isn’t an option which means he clearly isn’t thinking lucidly. That shouldn’t make Athos angry at him but irrationally, it does. A part of him wants to shake him, _hard_ , to get him to just stay awake and remain still until help comes but that’s absurd and he knows that. Another part of him simply wishes he could let him close his eyes and relax and not have to suffer the fear and the pain but Athos is too frightened to allow him do that; what if he closes his eyes and…

“Athos, I gotta…take a piss,” d’Artagnan says petulantly and it comes out so childlike it makes Athos’ heart stutter. 

“Can you wait a bit, lad? It shouldn’t be much longer,” Athos replies, his tone much gentler and he reaches down and tucks d’Artagnan’s hair behind his ears, the gesture soothing to both of them since d’Artagnan at once leans into Athos’ touch, and the older man leaves his hand resting against his cheek and places the other around his shoulders to keep him still and support his back.

“Probably,” d’Artagnan mumbles. “It’s fuckin’…cold in ‘ere…can you tell Porthos…to ‘urry up?”

“Yes, just try to keep your eyes open and I’ll tell the lads they need to move faster, alright?”

“Ok…they’re open.”

“Good.”

“Athos?”

“Yes, lad?”

“I think I…pissed myself.”

“Don’t worry, child, in a minute or so I’ll probably do the same thing.”

“Sorry.”

“No need to apologise, it’s happened to all of us more times than I can count.”

“Don’t…tell Aramis…he’ll never…let it go.”

“I won’t, I promise.

“He’ll say… _are you takin' the piss?_ …about everything…and then laugh…at his own joke.”

“He probably will. Teasing you is one of his favourite things, but only because he adores you of course.”

“Yeah…me too.”

“We’re fortunate to have each other.”

“Are you sure…you can’t…take this out…it really ‘urts brother… _a lot_.”

“I’m so damned sorry, you know I can’t, just be patient, you’ve had worse, we all have.”

“Probably…but this is…fucked up.”

“I know lad, I know.”

"Bollocks, it...fuckin'...'urts..."

Athos strokes his cheek gently, fighting hard to tamp down his terror."I wish I could make it stop."

“Athos?”

“Hmn?”

“I…um…I’m kinda…scared.”

Athos swallows a sob. “Me too child, me too.”

 

To be continued....


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank goodness for Arduna and her magical red pen, all mistakes are mine of course because I always mess with it after she's sent it back to me:)
> 
> Some of you may need to read the previous chapter before this one to know what's going on since I think some of my readers may have missed it. In any case, one more chapter to go and then it's done:) Massive thanks to everyone who has stuck with me!!

As Porthos waits, helpless and frustrated, a part of him is focused on something entirely irrelevant to what the fire brigade and rescue teams are doing on the snow-covered roof of the damaged building. 

His boot-clad feet are nearly numb from the cold and despite his leather gloves, wool hat and the layers of his uniform and kit he is frozen to the bone. None of that really bothers him though at the moment, as his mind has drifted back to a somewhat intense discussion he’d had with d’Artagnan a few days prior, regarding the younger man’s performance as a Unit Commander.

Porthos has avoided thinking of it as an argument or even a reprimand, although it had been both and probably for all the wrong reasons on Porthos’ part. Months have passed but Porthos is still stubbornly clinging to some of the things that had happened during the whole debacle with Rochefort and the Russians, and d’Artagnan and Aramis - the latter to a lesser degree - have felt the bite of Porthos’ lingering fear-induced anger, fuelled of course by his deep love for their little family and his desire to keep them all safe and close. 

Porthos had viewed Aramis’ sudden departure from London the night of d’Artagnan’s motorbike accident as a desertion and a betrayal. He and Aramis had always shared a special relationship, which had begun years ago on the job from the minute it had become apparent that they complemented each other perfectly; Aramis with his combat experience and his mad skills with his guns and Porthos with his wits and his physical strength had worked perfectly in sync with each other and they’d always had each other’s backs. To Porthos, this should have included the horrific period in their lives that they’d had to deal with the (thankfully temporary) loss of Constance and the agony of d’Artagnan’s all-consuming grief, and Aramis’ defection had hurt Porthos very deeply. It wasn’t always _all_ about Constance and d’Artagnan, although as their youngest team members the older and more experienced three had always been protective towards them. No, to Porthos it went far beyond that and Aramis’ desertion had been an open wound in his heart for a long time, no matter how much the other man had apologised or explained his reasons for needing to get away.

On the surface, his relationship with Aramis had begun to mend from the moment they’d all agreed to try and put everything behind them. But in reality it had taken months for Porthos to feel like he could depend on Aramis again as a friend and a brother but he is very grateful that with everything else he has on his plate at the moment that he and Aramis had finally managed to repair their damaged relationship, because Porthos knows that tonight, he will need Aramis more than anyone else to be at his side while they wait to see what will happen with their injured brothers and their very pregnant sister. 

As for d’Artagnan, well Porthos wishes he could say that things with the lad were back to normal again but unfortunately he simply can’t. He’s been harder on d’Artagnan than he’d ever been with any other member of his elite SO25 operatives, sometimes with good reason but other times simply because he’s still hasn’t forgiven him for offering to trade himself to the Russians or for forcing Aramis to shoot him. Porthos refused to see either of these choices as heroic, no matter who he was trying to save or protect; d'Artagnan had basically inserted himself into a sick game of Russian Roulette – pun intended he’d told the stupid boy – the outcome of which wouldn’t have only brought about his own death but would also have cursed everyone close to him to an existence plagued by guilt and grief. Porthos has always had a big heart and a lot of love to share with those few people in his tiny inner circle but forgiving d’Artagnan without taking his pound of flesh was out of the question.

Now though, waiting impatiently for the fucking helicopter to arrive and the God-damn door to be cut open Porthos wishes that he hadn’t been such a dick to the lad. A few days prior a perfectly executed, text-book arrest of two suspects in a failed bomb attack on a rail station had landed d’Artagnan in Porthos’ office where the lad had stood stone-still while Porthos ripped him a new one for something so insignificant that for the life of him Porthos can’t even recall it at the moment. All he remembers is d’Artagnan standing at attention, unblinking, no emotion on his face whatsoever while Porthos had raged at him. When Porthos had exhausted his anger d’Artagnan had respectfully and stoically apologised for the supposed transgression, but Porthos has known him long enough to be sure that there was real hurt in his eyes as he’d done so.  


While Porthos’ fury is a product of his deep affection for d’Artagnan - and his fear that if he doesn’t scare the shite out of him he will continue to put himself in unnecessary danger - he is fully aware that he’s created a rift between them. And now, d’Artagnan and Athos are in a life-threatening situation that could end badly and Porthos is pretty much shit-scared that he may never get a chance to explain himself.

He shakes off that ridiculous thought and tried to shift his focus back to what’s happening around him. Ryder is arguing heatedly with someone about the arrival of the med-evac, which has finally been cleared to land but still hasn’t appeared and Mouse and Beetle have offered their help with the door and are taking turns with the exhausting task of trying to cut through a two-foot thick door. When this is all over Porthos will personally deliver a public bollocking to the person whose idea it was to equip their building with a fire door that has turned out to be more dangerous than the fire itself. Keeping government secrets safer than the human beings that work in the building has Louis’ stamp all over it; if he finds out that the Minister is responsible Porthos will happily sacrifice his job to make a public spectacle of him, especially if there is unnecessary loss of life.

All these hours Porthos’ brain has been focused on getting Athos and d’Artagnan out safely and he’s ashamed that he hasn’t spared more than a passing thought for the bomb squad members who he is sure have perished in the blast. It’s not that he doesn’t care, of course he does, it’s simply that focusing on the living has taken priority. But Porthos has been told that they all had spouses and partners and children and he’s now feeling the weight of that. He knows he isn’t responsible for what happened to them directly, it’s their job and it could have happened at any time, but there will be a reckoning for whoever dropped the ball on this whole fiasco. The fact that the Imam had not been taken seriously is both insulting and dangerous, the man had done his civic duty in reporting the three suspects, the fact that it had taken days for someone to follow up and to pass it on to Counter-terrorism isn’t just a cock up, it’s down-right criminal. 

Porthos’ thoughts go back to Aramis; he desperately wants to call him, to let him know what’s happening and give Aramis a chance to tell him _‘don’t worry, everything will be alright’_ because when the bastard says it he usually manages to convince Porthos that it’s true. Aramis has a way of seeing the bright side to every situation, with his faith in God and his naturally optimistic nature he’s always managed to keep them hopeful, even when everything looks very bleak. But Porthos knows he’s with Constance, he knows that d’Artagnan had sent him there to keep her safe during the storm and ringing him would be selfish and possibly harmful to Constance, who is too close to her due date to be sent into a panic, especially before they actually know what’s happening. When the rescue is successful and he has something tangible to tell them Porthos decides he will send Ryder and the lads to pick them up and bring them to the hospital, even if he has to steal a fucking tank to make that happen.

Porthos is shaken out of his thoughts by the sound of a helicopter approaching, and the firefighters are cleaning away the last bit of snow from the make-shift landing pad. Ryder is on comms directing the pilot in and Beetle lets out a shout of victory when a large section of the door is cut through. Looks like it won’t be long now, he thinks gratefully and he takes out his phone and sends a quick text to Ellie, who he knows is definitely freaking out waiting patiently for news.

“I love you,” he texts simply because he doesn’t have anything else to tell her yet but that.

 _'Me so much more, stay strong'_ she replies and Porthos feels heartened, like he’s just received a shot of adrenaline and he shakes off the negativity and focuses on staying hopeful, it’s the only thing he can do at the moment anyway. 

Not two minutes pass and the door is finally cut through and Porthos springs into action, pushing aside all other thoughts aside from rescuing his brothers and getting them out in one piece. 

 

********************************

 

After several consecutive texts from Sylvie, urging them to be patient and stay alert but offering no new information, Athos’ phone finally goes dead.

He feels cold but he’s sweating and he no longer has any feeling in his leg or anywhere else for that matter since his entire body feels numb and boneless. D’Artagnan has deteriorated even further and at some point Athos had stopped bothering to wipe the blood away from his face and has focused all of his energy on holding him steady, his arms carefully wrapped around the lad’s shoulders.

“Athos.” 

It comes out too sharp and breathless, and it’s followed by a tiny tremor that feels like an earthquake has shaken Athos’ entire body and at once, he stiffens.

“Yes, lad?” he croaks.

Another shiver and d’Artagnan’s voice is barely a whisper. “We both…know what’s…coming right?” 

Athos knows, of course he knows, because this God-forsaken existence of his is _cursed_ ; his huge, cosmic practical joke of a life will never, _ever_ be free of loss, never be free of tragedy.

“A baby is coming, and I’m sure it can’t be soon enough for our girl,” is what he says finally, forcing out the words, although who he is humouring, Athos doesn’t know.

That elicits a sound, something like a gasp and a sob and then d’Artagnan goes quiet…too quiet. Athos gives him a little shake, one he knows will bring him pain and it does, it makes him moan and tremble but Athos oddly feels no remorse, all he cares is that he's still with him.

“Are you hoping for a boy or a girl? You never did say?” Athos asks lightly, as if they were sitting in the pub, sharing a drink, maybe watching a match with Porthos and Aramis who are arguing over a penalty shot or a lost bet.

“I…I don’t mind.” His voice hitches and Athos feels another tremor before he settles again.

“A little girl who looks like our beautiful Constance would be lovely,” Athos tells him brightly. “Or maybe a boy with dark hair and light brown eyes…and cheeky smile like his father.” 

Athos says it so calmly you’d never suspect he was dying inside. The idea of a dark-haired little boy who looked like d’Artagnan with his swarthy skin and honey-coloured eyes was both the most wonderful and painful thing that Athos could possibly imagine.

“A healthy baby,” d’Artagnan breathes, “like my mum says…nothing else matters. Athos…will you…be there…for him or her…always?”

The words are spoken so quietly, with so much sadness and heartbreak, it’s like a knife to his heart. Hand shaking, Athos cards his fingers through the lad’s long hair, and gently pulls him closer. 

“Now that’s a stupid question. Of course I will, I’ll be right beside you, watching him or her grow up, like we did with Marie, we’ll all be there, with you and Constance, to see your child take those first steps, go to school, ride a bike, fall in love. That sounds so eerily familiar, mind you, I feel like I watched the pair of you grow up and do all of that as well, you could barely grow a beard when I first laid eyes on you,” Athos says fondly, the knife twisting. 

D’Artagnan makes an attempt to chuckle, but it morphs into coughing and his entire frame shakes and Athos tries to keep him still, wrapping his arm tighter around his shoulders, carefully avoiding moving him or that the dreadful piece of metal that is slowly stealing his life.

“Just breathe, child,” Athos soothes, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the side of his icy forehead. “We’ll be out of here in no time, I promise. I’m sure Porthos is right out there, removing concrete with his bare hands.”

“Maybe…I seem to have become…the bane of his existence,” he breathes, coughs a little and lets out a tiny huff of pain before he relaxes again.

“No, lad, never, Porthos has always been your biggest champion, from day one you know. He told me and Aramis and Treville that he was an _‘excellent judge of character’_ and gave you the thumbs up when I was ready to give you the boot to be honest.”

“Yeah, I know…he’s always…had my back…you’ll tell him right? That I knew that…”

Athos feels as if every cell in his body has frozen. “You’ll tell him yourself, why have you suddenly become so morbid, child? You’ve had worse injuries, this is nothing, I promise.”

“I dunno…brother…it’s just a feeling…you know?” d’Artagnan whispers.

“No I don’t know! You’ve never given up before and you won’t now, I will not allow it!” Athos tells him forcefully. “You are going to be a father, you foolish boy, so don’t you dare give in to this!”

“A father,” d’Artagnan breathes. It’s followed by a sob and a sharp gasp of pain and he twists, as if to move away from it and Athos stills him, squeezing his shoulders hard.

“Yes, you and Constance have created a life, it’s hard to imagine you’re even old enough,” Athos tries to tease, but it’s getting harder and harder to put up this front, not with d’Artagnan clearly feeling ready to give up. Athos slides his hand up to the boy’s face and cups his cheek, the prickly stiffness of his beard a clear reminder that he’s old enough to be a soldier and a spy, old enough to be a father…

…but certainly not old enough to _die_. 

D’Artagnan leans into the touch and sighs softly, his body going still enough to scare the life out of Athos, but he feels the little tremors, hears the breathy pants and then a yet another soft groan of pain. 

“You don’t think Aramis…still holds a grudge, too? I made him…angry enough…to fly across…an ocean…”

Athos stiffens. “You’re joking, surely, he loves you, silly child, he adores you, that’s why he was so livid! He was afraid…to lose you,” Athos says, choking on that last part. “After Constance, he was in pain, and worried about you, why are you dredging this all up? We put this to rest months ago!” 

“I know…you’re right, that’s done. Listen…if I have a son…promise me…you won’t let Aramis talk to him…about the birds and the bees…that should fall to Porthos…he’s already a parent…Aramis’ version may… scar him,” d’Artagnan says, huffing out a laugh and then a gasp, every breath clearly a struggle.

This time Athos doesn’t argue, he strokes his cheek gently with his thumb and makes a low sound that’s supposed to be a chuckle, but it’s so forced it sounds more like a sob. “You’re right about that one, lad, Aramis should never be in charge of anyone’s sexual education, he’s too…what it’s the right word?”

“Free,” d’Artagnan answers. “He can…teach him to shoot…clay pigeons only…don’t let my kid…be a soldier…or a copper, please Athos…an accountant…or an artist…even a barista…but never….someone who carries a gun.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure Constance agrees with that, nothing to worry about there, child. Now stop thinking about anything other than being rescued, will you? You’re giving me a headache,” Athos grouses.

On the stairs above them Athos can hear voices, and loud cursing and it sounds very familiar, like… _Porthos?_ Possibly Ryder as well and Athos is so relieved and so fucking thankful he’s sure he’ll start weeping.

“D’Artagnan, do you hear that? It’s Porthos and Ryder, we’ll be out of here in no time, and not a minute too soon, you may look skinny but it feels like you weigh a ton leaning on me,” Athos teases shakily. 

“D’Artagnan? D’Artagnan!”

There’s no response but Athos refuses to panic. They’re seconds away from being rescued, of course he’s fine…he _has_ to be.

He puts two fingers to his throat and calmly feels for a pulse, but his hands are shaking so hard he can’t seem to find one. “Child, you’re scaring me,” Athos hisses close to his ear and he grabs his wrist but he’s got a watch with a thick rubber strap on one hand and something he has no idea of what purpose it serves on the other. No amount of manoeuvring can loosen either one, not with his hands trembling so hard.

“D’Artagnan, answer me damn it!”Athos demands angrily, giving him a rough shake. 

No response.

“Child, _please_ …”

There’s nothing. No gasp of pain, no steady rhythm under his searching fingers and no trademark snarky reply at the use of the hated nickname. Athos can’t get his hand under the lad’s Kevlar to feel for a heart beat or the rise and fall of his chest, not without disturbing the metal bar embedded in his abdomen and he stops trying.

One tear falls, then another and Athos is brutally reminded that they’d been in a very similar situation a couple of years ago, at the farmhouse, after Marcheaux. But that night Aramis had been with them when the foolish child had passed out in his arms…and he’d been _breathing_ , his pulse strong and steady despite the blood dripping from his mouth and pouring out of a hole in his chest. He wants to call out to Porthos but his throat has gone so tight he knows that no sound will come out. This is not happening, absolutely, positively _not_ happening. 

The God that everyone seems to believe in with so much devotion cannot be this cruel, Athos thinks firmly, and he shakes d'Artagnan one more time and swallows the dryness in his throat and leans forward and hisses his name directly in his ear…and yet, there is still nothing.

Athos hears the sound of boots on the metal stairs and the loud scraping of rubble being pushed aside and then Porthos, Ryder, Beetle and Mouse appear, climbing carefully over chunks of concrete and twisted metal, followed by paramedics carrying orange plastic stretchers. Athos tries to speak when they gently move d’Artagnan away but he’s smothered by Porthos who’s hugging him tight and kissing his cheeks before he pulls back to make room for the medics.

Athos is lifted gently and carefully into one of those basket-style stretchers and a needle is inserted into the back of his hand, a thermal blanket tucked tightly around him. He can’t see what’s happening beside him because too many people are standing around him but Porthos is cursing loudly and telling someone to _hurry the fuck up_ and an unfamiliar voice yells _clear_ and Athos knows what that means, he knows what they’re trying to do and that’s it, he can’t do this anymore, he can’t face this.

He shuts his eyes and lets go.

 

**********************

 

“Ok my darling, you’re doing great, just keep breathing, that’s it, everything is going to be fine,” Aramis tells her but to be honest he barely believes a word of what he’s saying. 

From almost the moment he’d helped Constance onto the bed the contractions had begun coming closer together and Constance is already so exhausted that he’s frightened for her health and the health of the baby. A quick check of her blood pressure has shown that it has risen dramatically and after a frantic call to Reina, who assured him that they are almost there, Aramis is still having a very hard time keeping his panic in check.

He’s helped Constance assume the birth position and removed her track pants and knickers without so much as a blink despite their earlier banter about it. He then placed a clean sheet over her legs to keep her warm while he performed a very clumsy examination of her cervix, based on a quick Google search (thank goodness for mobile data!) and the few things he remembers from his basic medical training. It’s now very clear to Aramis that this baby will not wait for Reina or the ambulance or even God because it’s on its way into the world, whether they are ready or not.

With the power still out Aramis had opened every curtain and shade in the flat to allow as much daylight as possible in but the sky has darkened considerably leaving the room much less bright than it had been earlier and if the baby doesn’t come soon he or she will be born by candlelight…and won’t that be a story for them to tell.

“Aramis, please, it fuckin’ ‘urts, are they almost ‘ere?” Constance pants, no longer making much sense to be honest, something else that’s scaring the shite out of him.

“Yes my love,” he soothes gently, “but you’re going to have to push because it’s time,” he explains to her patiently. 

“Ok, ok, I can do that,” she replies with a groan and she takes a deep breath and gives a mighty push.

“That’s it, you’re doing great,” Aramis tells her, when he sees what he assumes is the top of the baby’s head. “Push again my love, now,” he urges.

Constance lets out a cry of pain but she does as he directs and the baby’s head is nearly out! 

“Again!” he demands and she gives another push, followed by a scream of agony and finally the baby’s head and neck are out. There’s noise coming from the living room, where Aramis has left the door unlocked for Reina and the medical crew but he’s laser focused on Constance who looks like she’s starting to falter. 

“One more big one my darling, come on you can do it,” Aramis urges, his latex-covered hands holding the baby’s head while she gives another push followed by a whimper and a groan. 

Reina rushes into the room, along with two paramedics and they quickly snap on surgical gloves and Aramis gently gives the baby’s head and shoulders over to Reina and scrambles up the bed to lie beside Constance, propped up on one elbow and he gently uses his other hand to push the damp strands of hair away from her face.

“It’s over, Constance, just one more push and he’s out,” Reina says, grinning and Aramis encourages her to give one last push. Constance frankly looks horrible, her eyes have gone bloodshot and face is covered in a sheet of sweat and she looks like she doesn’t have the strength left to lift a finger let alone push but his brave girl manages one more mighty push and that’s it, the baby is out and soon crying loudly. 

The paramedics and Reina are all busy clamping and cutting the cord and wrapping the baby in a blanket while they quickly discuss something about _placenta_ delivery and Reina urges Constance to push a few more times. It takes another three to four minutes but that finally happens as well and it’s put in a plastic container. After cleaning the baby’s face gently with sterile wipes, Reina hands over the baby to his mother.

“Is it a boy or girl?” Constance asks, and her words are slurring, something that Aramis is not happy about. 

“A boy!” Reina says, sounding very pleased and she carefully lays the wrapped bundle on Constance’s chest so she can hold her baby.

With trembling hands, Constance wraps her arms around the baby and turns to Aramis. 

“Theo,” she breathes, and she smiles tiredly but then suddenly, her eyes slip shut and her hands go slack and to Aramis’ horror the baby rolls towards him. He wraps his free arm around Theo instinctively and he cries out for Reina and the paramedics who tell Aramis to grab the baby and get off the bed, _now._

In the corner of the room, with Constance and d’Artagnan’s son held tightly in his arms, Aramis watches, his heart in his throat as the two paramedics and Reina try and revive the unresponsive Constance. They say things like _‘no obvious haemorrhaging’_ and _‘blood pressure dropping’_ and the younger of the two male paramedics unpacks a portable defibrillator and that’s when Aramis has to turn away. 

Theo begins to cry again and Aramis feels a second of sheer panic but he knows that won’t help anyone. He begins to rock the baby very gently in his arms and he coos and whispers nonsense until by some miracle, baby Theo falls asleep. 

With his eyes focused on the bleak, grey sky outside the balcony doors Aramis hears Reina say _‘clear’_ and he tightens his grip on the precious bundle in his arms and he begins to pray.

To be continued....


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arduna my friend, without you this story would have been a mess of typos and inconsistencies so thank you from the bottom of my heart :)

The quiet church is full to capacity. 

Not that Porthos would have expected anything less, d’Artagnan’s parents have been members of the congregation for thirty years, and their two sons had gone to school there, both lads very bright and mischievous, and there isn’t a teacher or a member of the clergy that doesn’t remember the pair of them fondly.

Porthos had never met d’Artagnan’s brother but he’d singled him out at once, tall, dark hair, honey-coloured skin, sitting in the second row with a small blonde woman and two very well-behaved little boys. He’d met Constance’s mother and sister a few times and once, under eerily similar circumstances that he’d rather not remember, but this church is different, Constance’s mother is Protestant and the 300 year old church she attends in Preston is rather stark and decidedly less ornate than the one they currently occupied. The woman is seated in the first row with her daughter and her daughter’s partner beside her, her navy blue suit perfectly tailored and appropriate for the occasion.

On the other side of the aisle in the second row Athos fusses with his crutches and Sylvie takes them from him and whispers something in his ear and he settles. Beside them Aramis and Reina are quiet, and Aramis has his head bowed slightly which means that he is praying. Treville, neatly groomed and in an impeccable black suit is beside Reina, his gaze focused on a prayer book in his hands.

In front of them, alone in the first row are d’Artagnan’s parents, his father with his arm around his mother’s shoulder as he whispers something in his wife’s ear. Porthos sees her wipe away a tear and it makes his heart stutter.

He looks over the sea of faces seated behind his close family and friends and Porthos sees lots of familiar faces; many of his SO25 operatives with their partners and spouses including Mouse and Beetle as well as Jane, Danny and Tei, Constance’s colleagues from the Agency, and surprisingly enough Louis, accompanied by Lemay. But his gaze comes back to the baby in his arms as little Theo begins to fuss just as the priest begins to speak. Ellie, standing beside Porthos peeks at the baby and gives him his dummy and he quiets at once. Marie, dressed in a short-sleeved blue velvet dress with a pale blue bow at the waist is respectfully silent as the Priest explains to everyone present why they have gathered on this chilly spring Saturday. He also explains that due to circumstances that everyone present is aware of the ceremony will be shorter and less formal than usual.

The priest turns to Porthos and his family and asks which of them is standing as Godparent to the baby and Marie steps forward with a shy grin. Porthos follows with Theo in his arms since Marie simply cannot hold the chubby baby for any extended period of time and he beams proudly at his beautiful little girl as she listens intently while the priest explains to her what will take place.

D’Artagnan’s mother is now weeping unabashedly and no one faults her. 

It’s been a very difficult and emotional time for all of them and Porthos’ thoughts go back to the hell they’ve been through. Athos had nearly lost his leg and his life as a result of hypovolemic shock. There had been moments in those first few hours that Athos had begged Aramis, who is listed as his next of kin for medical purposes, to demand that they amputate because he simply couldn’t face any more procedures or anymore pain since he was dead-set against taking controlled substances for the rest of his life. But Aramis had stubbornly stood his ground and forced him to be patient because through Treville’s connections he’d located a micro-surgeon in Germany who specialised in combat-related injuries and reconstruction. After a quick Skype consult the surgeon had been confident that he could not only repair the crushed bones but also deal with all the problems that had been plaguing Athos as a result of his previous gunshot wound. Within hours of their rescue Treville had arranged to have the doctor and his team, which included an orthopaedic surgeon and a plastics specialist, flown in from Berlin by private jet, with the logistics arranged by their embassy in Germany.

Despite the relative success of the reconstruction Athos had been plagued by a post-operative infection for days after and on one horrible night they’d come very close to losing him. Porthos and Aramis had been at Athos’ side, trying to comfort a devastated Sylvie and a shell-shocked Treville while the doctors had struggled to keep him alive as his body had gone septic. In his delirium he’d called out for d’Artagnan, over and over again, reliving that moment that the lad’s heart had stopped on a loop and it tore at Porthos’ soul to hear him suffer so horribly. 

It had taken an entire team of doctors from various specialisations to finally stabilise Athos and save his leg and although Athos’ thigh was now held together by rods and pins and others things that Porthos didn’t understand the chronic pain was already considerably improved and the prognosis for him to regain 90% use of his leg again without significant discomfort was very good.

Baby Theo is thriving, mostly thanks to Ellie, who had taken on the role of his surrogate mother within hours of his birth. As soon as the baby had been released from the hospital he’d gone home with Porthos and Ellie where they’d hastily set up a nursery in Marie’s room, something that had thrilled the little girl to no end. Her help in taking care of the newborn made it a no-brainer to name her as Godmother to the little boy. 

“In scripture there are many reference to miracles; not only in our faith but in all faiths it is believed that miracles take place,” the priest is saying, veering off from the christening rites. “I’ve known the family of this little boy for many years and today I stand before all of you and thank our Lord and Saviour for the miracle that brought him into this world. Little Theo was born under the most difficult circumstances and yet by the grace of God he is here with us today and he is doing wonderfully.”

A door opens on the left side of the church beside the first row of pews and suddenly all eyes are focused in that direction. A soft murmur of voices is heard as Ryder, in an impeccable grey suit and tie appears, pushing a wheelchair with a very tired but very happy looking occupant, an oxygen tank hooked to the side of the high-tech chair. Beside him, in a crème colored knee-length dress a young woman fusses with the plastic tubing that’s connected to the tank.

Another louder murmur ripples through the church as everyone present focuses on Constance and d’Artagnan, who frankly no one expected would be present at their child’s christening.

Porthos’ attention returns to Ryder, who leans over and says something to d’Artagnan that makes his friend smile before pushing the wheelchair further into the church. Aramis gets to his feet at once and hurries forward to help Ryder get the chair up the three steps to the Sanctuary area of the church. He turns to go but Porthos indicates he should stay, so he stands beside Ryder with his hands clasped behind his back and a soft smile on his handsome face.

Constance is beaming, her blue eyes shining with love as she looks at her little boy in Porthos’ arms. Her heart had stopped just moments after giving birth and Porthos doesn’t even want to imagine what would have happened if Reina and the ambulance crew hadn’t made it in time. Aramis is a competent medic but without any equipment or assistance he may not have been able to save Constance’s life. 

Porthos knows his brother has played that scenario out in his head over and over again too many times and it’s threatened to become a new form of PTSD for Aramis. Thankfully though, with the support of Reina and their little family – and a few hard slaps from Constance – he’s been able to put it behind him…for the most part that is, because you don’t simply forget almost losing one of your dearest friends, _again_ , very easily.

As for Constance, after a week in intensive care and just about every test possible, her doctors concluded that she’d suffered no lasting damage and had no issues with her heart. It was just one of those freak things that can happen after the stress and the exhaustion of childbirth, and the fact that things had gone so bonkers in general certainly hadn’t helped.

The baby’s father of course was another matter. His heart had stopped for a few terrible moments as a result of the massive trauma he’d suffered but the paramedics had been able to stabilise him relatively quickly so that he could be safely med-evac’d. D’Artagnan had suffered damage to multiple organs including his right lung and had only been released from the hospital at the very last minute to attend the Christening and he was expected back as soon as it was over.

Unlike Athos he hadn’t experienced any post-surgical complications but the road to recovery would be slow due to the fact that he’d suffered such massive internal trauma. The good news of course is that everything is going very well, much better than expected, the bad news is that he’s like a bear in a cage and is not happy at all to be confined to a hospital bed while his little boy is growing and changing by the day without him. He’s smiling now, his unnaturally pale face looking much thinner than usual but that could also be attributed to the fact that he’s clean shaven, a look that also makes him appear far younger than his 31 years. He whispers something to Aramis and his friend nods and makes his way towards the pews where he leads a startled Athos, slow and clumsy with his crutches, back up to the Sanctuary to stand beside the rest of them.

The rest of the ritual passes in a blur. Baby Theo is anointed and blessed and then passed over to his father who hasn’t seen him in days. D’Artagnan clings to the squirming child happily while the rest of them look on fondly, laughing at d’Artagnan’s inability to get him to settle in his arms. Aramis relieves him of his precious burden and Porthos feels his heart clench at the sight of his brother holding baby Theo with so much tenderness and love that it nearly brings tears to Porthos’ eyes.

Each and every person gathered wants to congratulate the couple and coo over the baby and Porthos stands guard beside the pair of them, anxious and worried as they remain there for what seems like hours, greeting everyone and sharing hugs and a lot of tears. By the time everyone aside from the immediate family has gone d’Artagnan has nodded off in his wheelchair and Constance looks utterly exhausted.

“Dinner is at our café,” d’Artagnan’s father reminds them and they shuffle out of the church and into the three vans that Porthos has hired for the occasion. 

D’Artagnan’s and Constance’s mothers fuss over the sleepy d’Artagnan, worried that he should go straight back to the hospital but Constance assures them that he’s well enough to attend the dinner. Treville and Aramis help Athos sit beside the lad in the adapted van that Porthos had arranged and it’s probably one of the few moments that they’ve spent time together in the past few weeks despite being in the same facility. D’Artagnan is utterly exhausted, Porthos notes, but not too tired to rib Athos about his freshly shaved look and dramatically shorter hair. 

Athos though is looking at d’Artagnan like he still can’t believe that he’s actually alive.

After their rescue Athos hadn’t seen d’Artagnan for days and when they were both well enough to keep their eyes open for more than a few moments Aramis had face-timed d’Artagnan, who was just a few rooms over, so that Athos could see that he had truly survived and was on the mend. Athos’ disbelief was understandable, since the last thing that he remembered before passing out was that d’Artagnan had flat-lined. In those fevered moments where Athos had been fighting for his life he’d been convinced that the lad was dead and he’d cursed d’Artagnan in absentia for going to look for him, babbling about his life not being worth saving. It kills Porthos to think that Athos hadn’t valued his life enough to feel that he was worthy of d’Artagnan’s sacrifice but he partly understands it now, especially since it’s become clear that he’d been suffering tremendously for months on end in silence.

The ride is short and the Christening party settles into their seats in the café, which has been decorated by Ellie, Porthos and Marie for the occasion. As the Godparents Porthos had insisted that they pay all the expenses but d’Artagnan’s father of course had refused so they’d compromised on Porthos covering Theo’s Christening clothes, the church, transport, decorations and favours, and the food, drinks and desserts would be arranged by d’Artagnan’s parents.

Porthos looks around at the noisy crowd from where he’s helping pour drinks behind the bar. It’s not the first time they’ve all gathered after a particularly traumatic event, it’s seems to be something they do; go through hell and then celebrate making it back alive. It’s the nature of the game and the lives they’ve chosen to lead. There’s not one of them though who is willing to give it up, and even though they’ve all compromised in one way or another, none of them has walked away from law enforcement altogether and he knows that they never will. They will be doing this until they retire or until they die, whichever comes first.

A few days earlier the bombing suspects had finally been charged with multiple offences, including the senseless deaths of the members of the bomb squad and would likely never see the outside of their prison walls as long as they lived. As had been suspected the three culprits are anti-immigration nationalist fanatics who were trying to implicate Muslims in the bombing attack. The Imam who's suspected them had been visited by the PM herself to apologise for the way everything had been handled and she’s promised tighter ties with the Muslim community, something Porthos is very pessimistic about; the only thing the government has ever cared about is demonising the Muslim community not working with them, and Porthos sadly doubts that anything will change now.

“A pint of whatever’s on tap, bartender,” Aramis teases and Porthos looks up and sees Athos, leaning most of his weight on his crutches standing beside him as well as d’Artagnan, tired and sagging in his wheelchair but they’re all smiling and Porthos relaxes and grins back at them.

“Another adventure for the books,” d’Artagnan says wearily and Porthos pours him an orange juice after handing beers to his other two brothers. He comes around the bar to stand beside them and hands a grimacing d’Artagnan the juice and then he takes his own drink off the bar top.

“A toast, to Theo, who made it through the ceremony without shedding a tear,” Porthos says cheekily. “Although the same can’t be said for you lot.”

Aramis grins. “And to Athos, who’s managed to keep a frown off his face for most of the day,” he ribs.

“To Aramis, who’s kept it in his pants for a record-breaking amount of time, it must be, what 6 hours at least?” Athos adds drily.

D’Artagnan sputters out a laugh and pulls the oxygen cannula away from his face to wipe away the orange juice. 

“To my friends and brothers, who’ve selflessly taken care of me and my family while we recovered,” d’Artagnan says sincerely and they all nod and raise their glasses to that.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Porthos says with a smirk. “But I’ve got to admit, havin’ Theo at ours was brilliant, I think Ellie and I both realised that it might be time for another,” he admits shyly.

That brings a round of ribbing from the others and Aramis is cornered by d’Artagnan, who insists that it’s his turn next.

Aramis holds up his hands in protest. “It’s not only up to me, and I’m not sure that my heart can take another pregnancy and birth, you and your girl broke me my friend!”

There’s more laughter and teasing and Porthos looks around at all the happy faces, at Constance and Ellie fussing over Theo, at the two grandmothers bonding and their friends and work mates enjoying a well-deserved relaxing meal and lots of alcohol after weeks of worry. They’ve ‘dodged a bullet’ once again and come out closer and stronger and Porthos is grateful, so fucking grateful that they’re all in one piece.

He’s about to make another joke about Aramis and babies when he notices the priest, in deep conversation with d’Artagnan’s brother, and Porthos decides to say a quick, silent prayer instead.

_‘Please God, if you’re out there and you’re listening, keep my family and my friends safe, especially our little ones Marie and Theo, and I promise to spend less time cursing and more time saying my prayers, Amen.’_

When he’s done he looks up and sees Father Martin looking directly at him, a quizzical look in his eyes but a smile on his face. Porthos feels the hair on his arms stand up when the priest nods at him and Porthos, feeling a bit wobbly, but decidedly peaceful, smiles and nods back. 

 

The end…for now…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the last story in this series but I ended up writing one more. It's complete and has gone for beta and it will be posted in 3 parts at some point. It's very different from the previous stories in both content and style and I hope that you'll give it a chance since it really is the end of this series, period. 
> 
> As for the canon verse stories, I'm putting everything on the back burner, probably until after Christmas while I re-evaluate and re-think some of the plot-lines because I don't want that series to become tiresome or old, not when I feel like I still have more to say about the war years, as well as a story that I've begun that takes place between seasons one and two.
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone who's taken the time to read and leave kudos as that is the only payment fan-fiction writers receive. Constructive criticism is also welcome and I'd love to hear from the readers who stopped following this series so that I can get an idea of where I may have veered off course or maybe become repetitive. 
> 
> Bye for now!!


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